


dying heart falling apart

by maisiedaisies



Series: only light drives out the darkness [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Out of Character, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Smut, Substance Abuse, Triwizard Tournament, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, mentions of abuse, minors using drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 45,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisiedaisies/pseuds/maisiedaisies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron destroys their relationship after Harry's name gets chosen, Harry destroys himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> been working on this for a while now, but I've finally decided to post it! Let me know what you think, please! There is definitely more to come
> 
> (a suggestion, use the entire work option to read this fic. chapters are wayyy too short)

It really was getting very difficult to avoid Ron.

The redhead seems to show up everywhere, and whenever he sees Harry he either sneers in a manner worthy of Malfoy or dismisses his existence altogether. It doesn't help matters that Hermione had been torn neatly in half between the two, and never played favorites, even when Ron was being particularly nasty as they tried to coexist.

Seamus sticks to Ron’s side like glue, and as a result Dean usually ends up tagging along with them as well. The only person from Gryffindor that Harry had been able to be around was Neville, and it was often dreadfully boring. Neville was a simpler person, who wouldn’t dare speak badly about anyone else and spent a great deal of his time in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout. Whenever Harry came along, as an excuse to get away from all of the Cedric supporters or because he had nothing else to do, he often found himself with soil thrown in his face by the rambunctious plants. 

It had been over a month since Ron and Harry had stopped speaking to each other and he felt more miserable than ever. Homework was building up at a jolting rate every night and Hermione had already proved herself a stressful study partner. Additionally, she seemed to invest all of her free time in trying to convince Harry that he should make up with Ron, a subject that Harry would much rather be left alone. 

“Why should I be the one to apologize?” Harry had retorted, the one time she'd persisted at it, “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Hermione said sheepishly. The word _technically_ hung thick in the air, implied yet unspoken,  “But most people would say you’re the one at fault…”

In response he had huffed and grabbed all his things, wallowing in a state of betrayal and hurt.

Until, it got to the point where he wished he had listened to Hermione instead. In fact, he often found himself wishing he had just apologized right when all of this had happened, so it wouldn’t have escalated to this point. Ron was being positively horrid all hours of the day, and he soon found himself avoiding mealtimes, avoiding the dormitory, and trying to avoid everyone in the whole school altogether. They all seemed to think he had done something wrong, that all the fame was just going to his inflated head. What could he have possibly done in order to convince them otherwise?

The one time he had mustered up enough courage to try and confront the redhead, he’d opened his mouth and had immediately been assaulted with vile insults. After that, Harry didn’t try to talk to him anymore, to say the least. He knew that their relationship of three years was almost certainly over, and it hurt. It hurt that on that fateful first day at Hogwarts, he had chosen Ron over Malfoy despite all the faults piled against him and yet the Weasley  _still_ hated his very being. Each passing day he found himself wishing he could go back in time. First, he started wishing that he could redo the start of the term all over again, get off on the right foot and probably _destroy_ the Goblet of Fire because there was most likely nothing else he could have done to prevent his name from entering the cup. Soon, though, he began longing for the chance to go back and redo his time at Hogwarts right from the start, for the chance to choose the right people as friends and stay far, far away from any dangerous redheads. He highly doubted he would be in this horrible mess if he were surrounded by Hufflepuffs.

After that, he started wishing desperately that he'd never been born. That right now there were three competitors in the tournament, that Ron didn’t have a clue of his would-be existence. Unfortunately, he was still painfully living, living through each day like a pale imitation of the living. 

He gradually stopped eating, or maybe it was altogether. He doesn’t really remember. Eating made him feel even more disgusting, he could rarely hold down food anyways with his dread, and he couldn’t go in the Great Hall without his name being spat out like poison. He opted to stay tucked away in the far corners of the library instead, escaping deeper and deeper whenever Hermione went to look for him. He burrowed into the nooks and crannies of the vast expanse of books, ignoring the way she called his name and searched extensively for any sign of him. If she wasn’t on his side, then she was against him and. That hurt. After weeks and weeks of cautious evasion and avoidance, he misses the bushy brunette as well. His marks are more or less the same now that he has more time to do his schoolwork but doesn’t have the help of the bright student. However, given his current state of being, those are quickly crumbling also. 

It's gotten to a point where everything of his former life has gone to shit. He hates sleeping, because Ron is there. He hates attending classes, because Ron is there. Those two things combined take up about three fourths of his time at school. There's no escape from the taunts and loathing glares that haunt him every waking (and non-waking) moment. 

Harry hates Ron and he's beginning to hate his own miserable life with a fervor that not even the Dursleys could inspire. Why couldn’t he have died all those years ago, along with his parents? He didn’t have even _them_ to support him or love him unconditionally. It was pathetic.

He can’t even stand the thought of being in the dormitory with Ronald Weasley, who seems to now live solely for the purpose of making his life worse. He ruins his belongings and ‘accidentally’ pours water on him in his sleep or 'accidentally' curses him. Harry doesn’t know how it got to be this bad between them, but it's gone past the point of being fixable. Their friendship has been massacred. 

He hasn’t been in the dormitory or gone to his classes in days, now. It’s easier just to avoid everyone and everything altogether, to spare himself from any unnecessary pain. When he’s really, truly hungry he nips food from the kitchens behind the pear painting and immediately ducks out of sight once more.

He likes to think he himself is invisible, and wishes he was for real.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's roaming around the castle, enjoying the eerie silence of early morning, when he sees a cloud of thick, gray smoke. This in of itself confuses him, because he’s almost sure that wizards and witches don’t smoke. 

It almost makes him go numb with disbelief when he sees that the person smoking is none other than Draco Malfoy, who despises all Muggle things and is the last person that should be holding a cigarette in between his two fingers with graceful ease. The usual tenseness has disappeared from the boy's body, and he looks relaxed and unrestrained. 

Harry doesn’t have his cloak, as it’s once more in the dormitory (So sue him if he gets detention for wandering past curfew, at least it’ll give him an excuse to be out of sight for a while). Because of this inconvenience, Malfoy immediately spots him as he comes in view. The aristocratic blonde raises his eyebrows loftily, and takes another slow drag.

“Harry Potter,” He says lowly, as though he doesn't want to disturb the tranquility of early morning, "I don’t see you around much these days. Or. At all, actually.” He's quite obviously armed with insults on the tip of his tongue, and his lofty smirk suggests that it wouldn't take much to trigger them.

Harry nods hesitantly. What else is there to say? He’s torn between staying and escaping into one of his little hiding nooks, a commodity not lacking in this giant castle. It would probably take him another decade to truly know every inch of Hogwarts, but he's well on his way to understanding it better than any other student. 

“Want a smoke?” Malfoy offers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. His expression gives nothing away, and Harry hesitates, head spinning. This could be a horrible trap, and he must be in some alternate universe because Draco Malfoy _hates his guts_. Unless it's laced with something dangerous, he shouldn't be offering it to Harry.

He accepts it anyways, rolls the innocent thing in between his fingers as it’s given to him. (Maybe it's because the blonde has shadows under his eyes or Harry is in no place to be picky about anything, has got nothing to lose. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s in the dead of night or that there’s no one else around.)

Malfoy shows him how to use it by briefly demonstrating on his own, and when Harry inhales for the first time, he feels the nicotine hit his system. It’s the most wonderful thing, like his buzzing, jolting anxiety is quieted and stretched thin, burning up with the smoke. He sputters a bit, unadjusted to the feeling, but. He’s calm for the first time in forever and he grins to himself. It’s the best he’s felt in weeks, honestly.

“The first task is coming up,” Malfoy says with the faint hint of a sneer, and he half expects to hear him mutter  _Perfect Potter_ under his breath.

“Mm,” says Harry quietly, basking in the soothing effects of the nicotine, “I’m not going.”

Those grey eyes widen uncharacteristically, “What? But, you’re a _competitor_.”

“Well, I never asked to be,” Harry informs him, humming slightly under his breath. He’s not used to talking to people so directly anymore, “I’ll probably just go in the bleeding forest until it’s over.”

Maybe he’ll get lucky, and one of the spiders will eat him.

Draco looks at him sharply, eyes sweeping across Harry’s face to see if he’s lying.

“Does this have anything to do with that Weasel avoiding you?” The blonde finally asks, tapping the cig against the ledge and watching it shed ash.

“Hating my guts, more like,” He admits tiredly. Who gives a fuck if he’s honest? At this point, his life has little to no value to him and he’s got nothing to hide anymore, “Along with everyone that I ever thought was my friend more or less the same way. It’s kind of funny, really, how fast people abandoned me when they found out my name was put in the goblet and rumors started spreading.”

“Well, obviously,” Draco rolls his eyes, “Honestly, Potter, everyone’s gone thinking you’re ego is too big for your own good.”

“I didn’t put my name in,” He says, irritated, voice like dry, sandy parchment, “Honestly, if I could go back in time and destroy the Goblet, or just not come this year at all, I would. God, it’s all gone to fucking hell.”

Wordlessly, the blonde hands him another cig and the sleek lighter. A small gesture of consolation. The corners of his mouth rise in thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've just realized that the characters in this story are pretty OOC. I'll probably add it to the tags, but I hope this is enough warning

The next night, Harry’s half hoping that Malfoy will be on the ledge again. He makes his way to the same spot, only to find no one there.

He shrugs, heart sinking a little in his chest because he really could use a cigarette right now. However, when he makes his way down the corridors and steps into the bathroom for a piss, he notices the same identifying head of pale blonde hair. It surprises him a tad more than last time, because Draco’s swallowing these peculiar pills right as Harry comes in. They don't have a particularly striking appearance, but he knows that Draco can't possibly be taking them for headaches. 

“What are they?” He asks quietly, out of curiosity rather than judgment. Honestly, he’s envious, because Draco seems to have all these fixes up his sleeve and Harry possesses nothing of the sort except his own destructive thoughts. They eat away at him, expose every one of his insecurities through hazardous digging and constant probing. 

“Pills,” Draco states obviously as explanation, ashen face regaining a little color when he sees who it is, “Make you feel good. Want some?”

Again, he holds out the tablets as though offering it to a friend of several years. Harry nods, a little too eagerly, and dutifully swallows the two that he’s given. It's odd, in minutes his insides feel strange but his disturbing thoughts are quieted. And that's what matters. As long as he has a way to escape from the constant doubt and self-degradation, just for a few moments. 

They end up sitting on one of the giant baths, feet dangling over the edge, basking in the quiet. Draco moves to put the capsule back in his robes and his sleeve rides up. The movement reveals irritated cuts on his porcelain skin, lined up like artwork, like visual sorrows, and Harry feels a tug of almost yearning rather than being sickened. They have a certain aesthetic quality to them, and he thinks it could be a little bit like getting tattoos. Making a tally on yourself, each time you've felt stuttering doubt or acidic hatred or twisting jealousy and managed to survive and keep count. 

“Does it hurt?” He inquires, gesturing to the lines.  

“Not much, now,” Draco shrugs, "They make me feel good, too." Harry doesn't quite fathom how pain can make one feel good, but at the same time he understands the logic behind it, the rush of endorphins and the twisted pleasure as a result. 

In just a day, they seem to have developed another bond out of sight from prying eyes. It seems untouchable but delicate all at once, years of rivalry and bitterness washed away or cast aside in favor of something else he can't put a finger to. Maybe it's because they've somehow both stopped competing for attention, maybe it's because Harry no longer has the desirable qualities Draco craves. Maybe it's because Draco doesn't seem to even crave any of that any longer, and neither does Harry. Maybe it's a combination of all of these factors, that makes his shoulders relax and his lungs function around this boy. As he sits with him in the peace and quiet, he observes his enemy with careful consideration. He’s never noticed how long Draco’s eyelashes are, or how he likes to bite his lip, or how he taps his feet against things when he’s desperate for relief. Now he can't stop thinking about it. 

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, unspoken questions circling his mind. He wonders if Draco’s fucked up like him, but doesn’t want to ask explicitly for fear of making him mad. Somehow, though, the blonde senses the question regardless and delves into the subject, the fourth night they’re together.

“My parents are assholes, for lack of a better term,” Draco mutters bitterly, a cig dangling from his lips, when he sees the question in Harry's eyes once more, “My mother’s cheated on my father possibly a hundred times. She’s a whore, but a rich one too. She’s never paid attention to me a day in my life. My father, on the other hand, takes his anger out on me at any chance," Implications lurk behind his dark tone, "And most of my mates’ fathers are in the same boat with _mine_ , so all of them serve as sort of a reminder of the bastard. It’s just about unbearable.”

After a few heartbeats of staring at his feet, he glances up at Harry. Right now they’re being completely honest, no walls, and his heart warms at the fact that Draco feels he can trust him. (Obviously, Harry has no one to talk to, so there wouldn't be any danger of other people learning about it. But. The sentiment is still there) So he takes his turn. 

“Well, obviously my parents are dead,” He says softly, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging them. He's not used to this, has never been directly asked to open up about problem's he's facing, “My aunt and uncle… they hate me, honestly. I'm forced to do all of the work they don't want to do and they lock me up. It was alright enough because Hogwarts felt like my real home, only now I’ve got no one here. Everyone hates me for something I didn’t do. Ron and Hermione, they’re like my brother and sister, I would die for them, and now they both despise the ground I walk on.

“And I don’t know how to cope, really. I just want it to end.”

There’s a pause, where his serious words carve themselves into acknowledgment.

“I can help you, Harry,” Draco says abruptly, meeting him in the eyes awkwardly. He notices the sudden use of his first name. It makes him slightly hopeful, “I can show you how to cope. I mean, I need money for it, because it’s not easy getting my hands on some of the stuff, but besides that. I can help make it better.”

Harry bites his lip, not wanting to get his hopes up, “I’ve got money. That’s not a problem… just please don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Draco says, "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if there's errors!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter. i'm invested. plus, i promised you guys another part tonight, so here goes

It’s been weeks since he started spending time with Draco. Every day the blonde shows him something new, shows him exactly how he’s been putting on a normal, blank façade all these years. He teaches Harry how to make pretty lines like his and hands him a shiny new blade to start him off. Demonstrates how to sharpen it so that it stays fresh, explaining that it can be frustrating and even dangerous to attempt to cut with a dull one. He indicates the areas where to make marks so that they aren't noticeable. It's a twisted, lovely gesture of care and so he promises to Draco that he'll be careful. (And how solemnly ironic that is)

Draco shares cigarettes with Harry (they’re the nice kind so they have to smoke in moderation, but Harry doesn’t mind). He also gives Harry a capsule of painkillers that numb his phantom-like pains ghosting in his limbs and stomach and heart. Harry discovers pot and other sinful Muggle things that give him a blissful high. He also eventually manages to get their hands on vodka. It’s wonderful and fiery at the same time, burns his throat in all the right ways. They only drink enough to get buzzed that night and the next morning Harry craves it again, wants to feel lost without purpose. One night, Draco even gets his hands on some acid and promises Harry they’ll give it a go sometime. These things are all hard to obtain, but Harry has money and Draco comes from a rich bloodline, so they manage.

Harry feels good almost always now. He's able to get to know and spend time with Draco's friends as well, the same people he was so wary of before. Turns out that Theo is addicted to seeing his blood bead up around new cuts and Vincent is a resigned alcoholic. Blaise binges and purges like it’s a religion of its own and Greg can’t get by without at least smoking first. They all gradually embrace Harry into their misfit group, when Draco told them about how he didn’t put his name in the Goblet. Harry suspects that they must’ve put up a fight about it at one point, but he’s too out of it to notice what's going on until they accept him.

Harry spends time with each of them, trying desperately to shake the cold loneliness that's latched onto his soul. They seem to enjoy his company, because he’s willing to try _anything_ once, just to numb the pain. One day in the bathroom, Theo reaches over without warning and slices Harry’s hipbone as some sort of test. Harry sucks in a breath but asks him to do it again. The guy grins at him and he knows he’s earned Nott’s approval.

Vincent sits with him one day in the Slytherin dorms and gets drunk off his arse while Harry mirrors his movements with careful precision. He ends up in a much worse state than the accompanying Slytherin. That's when he learns, unfortunately, that he can’t take alcohol very well, so an hour later he's vomiting and swearing he’ll never drink the vile stuff again. Vincent only laughs and promises to take better care of him next time; that it gets easier. The unspoken promise of  _more_  makes Harry's heart lift in between heaves. 

Blaise eats an inhumane amount at breakfast and tugs on his arm. Harry goes to follow him into the men's lavatory, and watches as the boy’s fingers slide up his throat and massage his gag reflex with masterful ease. He pukes once, twice, five times until he’s absolutely, assuredly empty. Drinks water once he's certain and shoves a stick of gum in his mouth. Harry immediately falls on his knees and does the same, loving the empty feeling that results from it when it's all over, and Blaise tells him that it makes him feel in control and he can do it with him whenever he likes.

He smokes with Greg at night when he can’t sleep or has jitters before an encounter with Gryffindors. It soothes his nerves and makes him feel lazy, relaxed and more confident. He can’t properly settle without a cig anymore, as though his body longs for it even before his mind picks up on the hints. Greg makes it seem so much better because he talks about the feeling right as the nicotine hits his system with love in his voice and it enhances the experience. Harry doesn't plan on stopping. 

He and Draco have found a new Coping Mechanism (the capital letters a complete necessity) as well. It’s not out of feelings or revenge or grudges or anything of the sort when one day they begin feverishly kissing and rutting against each other, weeks of sexual tension piling up and spilling out from their pores. Draco fucks him, and he fucks Draco with unsteady legs after, and Draco is quivering and moaning in delight because they’ve both found a completely new way of getting high. It’s wonderfully uncomplicated and doesn’t destroy his body in any way, so soon he doesn't hesitate to tug Draco to a secret place for a quick shag at times. Afterwards, they smile at each other and both breathe out shakily in satisfaction before getting on with their day.

Harry starts attending class again, even. They are their own special kind of awful, because he has each and every one of them with Ron, regardless of who the Gryffindors are with. It's an enormous adjustment, a step outside of his newly fixated comfort zone. When it’s with the Slytherins, however, he can sit with Draco, Theo, Greg, Vince, and Blaise. It's easier, because the group used to consist of only the five Slytherins and someone always got excluded in projects, but now there’s six of them and Harry rounds them out. It feels sacred, like they’re all sharing a secret together, the secret of destroying themselves mercilessly.

When it’s him alone with the Gryffindors, though, he’s unfailingly isolated and ostracized from a distance. It hurt a lot at first and he would slice into his skin brutally deep or take pills afterwards to ease his lingering tremors. But now, Harry knows to do all of that before as preparation and then just space out for the duration of the class. He comes close to overdosing before Transfiguration one day, but it’s fine because he can’t really tell what Ron is saying and therefore he can't really bring himself to care. He just sits in his seat, fantasizes about fucking Draco senseless and being embraced by those soft, thin arms and that really does help, too.

He’s coping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to comment if you want to talk, or if you feel as though this story hits a little too close to home. the door's always open!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter's up. extra long one

Changes start occurring in their group of six. There’s a lot of raised eyebrows when he begins to sit with the Slytherins at meals, but no one says much of anything to him anymore. He’s too high, fucked out, or drunk to find it in himself to care. The rest of the six of them have learned how to live through their coping methods in moderation, so it's barely noticeable when Greg is drunk or when Nott has just shredded his skin, dancing along the line of possible death by blood loss. 

Harry’s not there yet. So when the focus is brought to him in class or at lunch one of the other boys is always quick to answer in his place, until he learns how to function properly again. 

It helps their funds dramatically as Harry has inherited money he’ll likely never spend (or never _live_ to spend, the way he's headed), so he indulges each one of them; surprises Nott with a capsule of strong pills, or buys Vincent a really expensive pack of cigarettes. He’s not doing it to suck up or get on their good sides, because at this point if they decide they hate him and leave him as well he can always just go back to what he existed as before, except now with his picked up ways of staying happy. It just feels nice when he can make Greg’s eyes light up or Theo’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. In return, Theo casts a spell that fixes his eyesight, and he doesn’t have to wear those damned glasses anymore. Vincent buys him some drug that he received through a Muggle contact and he gets hooked. 

He gets a few, no, _several_ letters from Sirius and Lupin and either Mr. or Mrs. Weasley, but he never reads them. Isn't even tempted. He tosses the letters haphazardly in his trunk and does his best to forget about the problematic pieces of parchment as time goes on.  

When the Gryffindors are gone, or at least most of them, he showers and takes naps in the empty dorm. Sometimes if Harry has the courage, he comes in and sleeps when he hasn’t gotten shut eye for days or he really needs a change of clothes, regardless of the occupants. Ron is snide and snarky, but he no longer retaliates at the obvious attempts to provoke him, and eventually the redhead just ignores him altogether.

The holidays are approaching fast, with the first few months of the term having raced by in one giant haze. One day Draco broaches the subject. They’re in the Slytherin common room, where his reluctant presence has been generally accepted by now, and Draco is stroking his hair as he still shakes from his orgasm several minutes ago (what even are the two of them now, anyway?). He shrugs when asked about it. Honestly, the idea of something as normal as Christmas still occurring gives him a vertigo he can't bother to try and decipher.

“I haven’t thought much about it, but I’ll probably be staying here,” Harry says honestly, leaning into Draco's timid touch. He’s been trying to do everything in moderation lately, like the boys have all advised him (to sustain their funds and his sanity as well, to allow him to try and exist in actual reality), so he’s just cut today, and that’s _all_. His hands tremble but it’s nothing that he can’t get used to. He shouldn't have let himself get so out of control in the first place. It's a miracle he hasn't died. 

Draco frowns, “Weaselette was saying you were going to theirs for the holidays.” The snide nickname falls from his lips, obviously in an attempt to make him feel better. But concern and curiosity line his face and show through the disguise of the joke.   

“What?” Harry shoots up in his seat, “Wait, what? They… what? No one’s told me about this.”

“Shh, babes,” Draco soothes him, his hand sliding down Harry's back in a gesture, “We’re all going to Blaise’s for Christmas, why don’t you come with? He’s already mentioned it like, three times. It’ll be good, and his mum’s a bit of an excessive drinker so they’ve got lots of alcohol. Forget about the others." 

“Mm,” Harry hums in agreement. There's no contemplation even required for this, “Okay, I’ll go.”

And that’s that. They're all looking forward to going to Blaise’s, and honestly Harry’s curious because he’s only ever gone to one magical family's house. He’s excited too, because Draco told him that they’re sharing a room, and he's promised to fuck him for hours until he’s a whimpering, shaking mess. His libido is raging at the thought.

However, two days before they’re all due to leave, the twins corner him. He’s heading up with Blaise to the lavatories and he feels so full of food that it’s uncomfortable. Blaise’s trained him to feel best when he's empty, and he’s desperate to get to that point.

Suddenly, his path is blocked by two freckly clones. It takes a minute for him to recognize them, because he hasn’t thought of the other Weasleys besides Ron in so long. He’s just mentally blocked them out, lumping them all in the same level of evasion as their brother.

“Mind if we talk to Harry alone?” One of them says curtly, Fred or George, he can’t remember which. He used to be able to tell the difference between the two but obviously things have now changed. They both look too tall and too sure of themselves and he doesn’t like it, can't find the laugh lines and warm eyes that he remembers.  

Blaise shoots them a dark, menacing look. Before he can say anything, though, Harry mumbles quietly to him, “It’s alright, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” The thin boy asks. He shoots him a look. _Y_ _ou won’t be able to purge_.

Harry shrugs, feigning indifference to the situation, the throbbing mess of his stomach pulsing quieter now that there’s distractions.

He follows the two lanky figures into a deserted corridor. He isn’t truly afraid, because he knows Fred and George never hurt anyone so directly, especially not someone who hasn’t hurt them first. Then again, Harry’s deserves anything and everything that comes his way because he’s _Harry_ and his very existence seems to meld with collateral damage. So he stays silent, on guard, and watches while Fred/George runs his fingers through his vivid hair and the other twin sighs, looking him up and down as though searching for his very soul. Harry wraps his arms around himself self-consciously. He doesn't like being in the presence of these two, especially not when they're so calculating. It’s really cold as well, snowflakes building up on the stained glass windows. He's shivering.

“What’s this we hear about you going to Zabini’s for the holidays?” One of them begins harshly, his words spitting like knives (He says the surname like it's tangible poison and Harry's mind screams in protest). He flinches at the question. The twin speaking looks almost just like Uncle Vernon before the man’s about to hit something, usually him.

“Yeah?” Harry croaks, not quite sure what the question is. He tries to control his shaking. 

“Bloody hell, Harry, you’re coming with us to the Burrow for Christmas. Mum’s invited you almost ten times, she’s worried out of her mind. And so are the others,” The other twin present says. He realizes, a bit belatedly, that this is a serious conversation. The twins aren’t interchanging sentences like usual.

“You haven't even responded to anyone,” The left one points at him accusingly, “Lupin’s going insane, he’s _heard_ from McGonagall and Dumbledore what sort of state you’re in.” Curiosity sparks in him at the thought of what McGonagall and Dumbledore could've possibly been telling Professor Lupin about him.  

“I haven’t read the letters,” Harry admits unabashedly, skimming over the last bit because he does _not_ want to talk about that right now. Or ever.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Mutters the twin he suddenly registers as Fred, because his robes shift and he notices a sweater with the letter F embroidered carefully on it. Harry absently wonders if he's even gotten a sweater of his own from Molly this year.

“Well, it doesn’t matter regardless, because you’re coming with us,” George says, uncharacteristically sharp. He cringes inwardly at the cruel tone, “God, Harry, fucking look at yourself, you’re a mess, mate. Mum’s almost hysterical, Ginny and Ron send her letters every damn week telling her about who you’re mixing with.” Does everyone make a hobby of discussing his habits behind his back? It certainly seems so. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry snaps, anger bubbling up in his veins all of a sudden. He hates being forced, hates that George compares him to a mess when he feels the most carefully orchestrated he has in a long time. He hates being accused of things that aren't his fault in the first place,  “I’m not spending Christmas with you lot, you all _hate me_  and the feeling is mutual. You’ve hated me ever since I got pulled for the bloody fucking tournament, which wasn’t even my bloody fault, thank you,” He spits, and Fred blinks, “If I want to spend time by myself or with people who don’t give a damn about how I hold myself together, that’s my own _fucking_ business. Tell Ron this is _his_ fault in the first place, and tell him if he’s truly worried for me, then he can come running if he has an actual problem with it and not talk to me about others.”

The twins look at each other but he doesn’t stop, because he feels like he needs to get it out now while his head’s still clear and he knows what he wants to say, “I thought you lot were my friends,” George ducks his head slightly and he thinks bitterly, _good_ , “And I do hope your mum knows that I didn’t just spontaneously spiral out of control because of my own problems. I hope she knows that you and Ginny and Hermione have been ignoring me for _months_ , that Ron loathes the ground I walk on and no one says a thing even though I did nothing wrong. I’m not coming with you guys for the holidays and that’s the end of it. I would rather pitch myself off of the Astronomy Tower,” His voice is quivering and he feels raw.

Without looking for a reaction, he turns on his heel and goes back to the to the tables in the Great Hall, where the others are waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you thought! feedback and encouragement would be appreciated


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer(ish) chapter with lots and lots of angst

Harry sits down in the warm Great Hall and Draco immediately rubs his arms because he’s shivering, words and ice sliding under his skin still. The exchange with the twins had gotten to him more than he'd intended. 

“What happened, babes?” Harry leans into him, exhaling in pleasure at the term of endearment. 

“They wanted to know why I wasn’t going home with them for Christmas,” He explains unhappily, the conversation settling like frost in his brain and giving him a headache. Theo shoots him a sympathetic glance from across the table (and for the millionth time Harry wishes that he had chosen Draco over Ron all those years ago. His life would be so. Much. Easier).

He allows his eyes to drift over towards the Gryffindors for the first time in a long while, and sees the twins talking feverishly to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Words pouring like vomit out of their mouths, vile and rushed. Harry's heart sinks to his stomach when Ron shoots him a venomous glare from across the room. He ducks his head and goes back to listening to the conversation occurring right next to him, trying desperately to anchor himself in the present instead of sinking into his own thoughts. Draco rubs his back soothingly, and that calms him immensely. The blonde's promises of blowing him after dinner makes him feel better as well, miraculously enough.

 

 

It’s the first day of the holidays and Harry has to go to the Gryffindor dormitory in order to pack his things so they can departure. The very idea makes his stomach writhe nervously. He ventures there during breakfast, slipping away without too much notice. Amazingly enough, he remembers the password and the Fat Lady admits him reluctantly. It's lucky on his part, otherwise he would've had to ask a Gryffindor, and he would rather slit his own throat with a basilisk fang. He goes up the staircase into the fourth year's dorm and is unpleasantly surprised when he sees a redhead sitting on his bed, the accents of the room clashing horribly with his fiery hair.

Ron.

Ron, who's holding _his_ invisibility cloak and running a hand over the silky fabric. It makes Harry feel possessive and confused all at once. He clears his throat and takes the cloak from his hands. The boy's not allowed to be touching things that aren't even his. Ron looks up. The Weasley’s eyes are a puffy red. 

Anger bubbles up in Harry's throat. Ron's got no right to be upset at all. He doesn’t deserve to cry after every hell he’s put Harry through in these past few months. 

The Weasley watches him pack for a little while, uncharacteristically solemn. Harry uses a spell to clean his dirty clothes and store them neatly away. He also cleans Hedwig’s cage, trying to stifle the shake of his fingers. And _oh_ , he hasn’t thought about that owl in a long time. She probably feels extremely abandoned, to say the very least. It sounds idiotic, even to himself, but he hopes she’s making owl friends and still going out at night to catch mice. He hopes that she's still healthy despite the extreme negligence on his part. 

“So,” Ron’s voice cracks violently into the discomfort, high and awkward, after quite some time, “You’re - you're _not_  going to stay with us for Christmas?”

Harry gives him a sour look that screams, _obviously_ , “Why would I?” Ron's face changes, from suppressed hopefulness to something inexplicably crestfallen.

“Mum loves you,” Ron says desperately, “And Lupin - he wants to see you so badly, Harry.”

“That’s nice,” Harry responds dully, severing any feelings before they squirm to the surface. He remembers Mrs. Weasley’s tight hugs and Lupin’s sparkling eyes but they feel out of his reach, unattainable. These people obviously don’t want him around, and half the time he questions if the Slytherins even want him around. He wonders if they would still be his friends if he didn’t have the money to buy things for them, and the thought makes him feel sad. He despises his own existence. If he’s only good for a good fuck and buying things, then why is he still here?

He reminds himself to cut later.

“Don’t you _care_?” Ron says harshly, red in the face.

Harry shrugs despondently, “I don’t care much about anything anymore.”

He finishes packing in silence and leaves the dormitory.

 

 

They’re all set and ready to go. Draco kisses him on the cheek when he approaches the five of them, and it makes his nerves tingle down his spine to his toes. They find an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, fortunately. _Unfortunately_ , and hilariously enough, it’s straight across from where Hermione and the Weasleys are seated. There is no direct aggression in the duration of the trip, though it makes Harry extremely uncomfortable all the same. The others in the second compartment shift in their seats, clearly affected as well but. It's too late to go find another area to sit, they can't lose their spot here. And it’s clear that the Gryffindors have settled in there as an absolute last resort.

He can’t even smoke or purge or cut to make himself feel better. As much as he would like to, it's too crowded. As soon as the cravings start strengthening, Blaise holds out a bottle of pills for him dutifully and Harry lights up. He accepts it gratefully, and swallows four dry before he can think about it. He then realizes Hermione’s eyes are on him from the other compartment, and he takes one more because surely _feelings_ will hit him soon. Harry doesn’t think he can cope with that today, especially not after the talk with Ron.

They all converse and then Blaise takes out a whole sackful of Firewhiskey-laced chocolate that he must've smuggled. It's strong, Harry can tell. They play a game where they name characteristics of people, like someone wearing bracelets or having hair longer than their elbows, and when they see such things as people pass by the compartment they eat a square. Soon, the compartment is warm and Draco is giggling ( _giggling_ ) leaning against Harry with a bit too much weight, like he can't even support himself. 

At King’s Cross, they all exit the compartment and get off the platform together, clumsy and eager to get out of the cold already. Before he can stop it, Harry spots two heads of prominent red hair through the wintry gloom and a thin man with a brown coat and tired eyes standing next to them. It hits him like a punch to the stomach and he can’t _breathe_ all of a sudden. He’s missed Lupin so much, has needed his words of encouragement and kind wisdom more than anything this term and suddenly (kind of) regrets not opening the damned letters. He knows that Sirius is probably waiting at home as well, waiting for a certain godson that won't be making an appearance. His throat constricts. 

Before he can look away or melt back into the crowd, Lupin’s eyes are scanning and they find him, of course they do. The werewolf begins making his way towards them, weaving through the crowd. Blaise’s mum isn’t here to collect them yet because she’s probably out getting drunk somewhere, so he squeezes Draco’s hand as a warning and the blonde looks at Lupin before nodding in sudden understanding.

“We’ll be right over there, okay?” Draco points at an emptier part of the platform, looking straight into his eyes, and Harry nods. His throat is suddenly very dry, and he feels hollow when the five of them shuffle a good distance away, leaving him to deal with this particular confrontation on his own.  

Lupin’s eyes are searching him as he nears, and when he’s completed his examination the man sighs and runs his hand through his tousled brown hair. Harry _knows_ he looks bad. He knows that his eyes are bloodshot and dazed and that he’s lost too much weight, more than he can afford to lose. He knows that he’s almost translucent in his paleness and that his cheekbones are sticking out too much.  _You haven’t even seen my cuts_ , Harry wants to say. He thinks longingly of his invisibility cloak, tucked away in his trunk. 

“Harry,” Lupin sighs again, “What the hell happened?” His disappointment is worse than insults or yelling, and he shrinks away.  

Harry’s eyes smart before he can help it and he looks over at the Weasleys fleetingly. They’re watching him talk to Lupin, standing in place as if frozen, and it’s so painful. He absolutely  _hates_ being stared at, has never despised the attention more. He stares at a fixed point away from them and tries to control his ragged breathing.

Great. Now Lupin thinks he’s a fuckup, too.

“Ask Ron,” Harry says in a small voice, and Lupin raises his eyebrows, obviously adjusting to new information, “I’m sorry I’m not coming for Christmas, Professor. I really am. But you and Sirius are really the only people that can stand me right now and you wouldn’t even be there half the time.” He casts his eyes down to his feet, already sprinkled with melting snowflakes. 

“Don’t,” Lupin grabs his shoulder, keeping him anchored and present. He feels like his head’s about to float away. He ingested more pills on that train than he usually would, and the chocolate is toying with his inner inhibitions, “Don’t think that. Molly and Arthur are going crazy over you, and they’ve been sending letters all year about you as well,” Lupin’s eyes are all-knowing and it makes Harry’s wrists and hips itch and sting, “I can’t force you to visit, but if I could, I would. It won’t be the same without you, and trust me, we’re going to have _words_ with Dumbledore about this.”

“Mhm,” Harry says, not listening anymore. He feels too floaty to be having this conversation, wants to leave this place, “I’ll see you later, Professor.”

He turns and unsteadily walks over to where the Slytherins are waiting. Blaise _hugs_ him - close - while Draco’s hand brushes his. He feels so alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> badly written smut up ahead

Harry is pulled from his distressing dreams at the first hint of sunlight, so accustomed to waking early for classes that the habit is ingrained in him. Draco mumbles in protest when he shifts, slinging a pale arm around his waist and pulling him closer on the expanse of giant bed they're lying on. Theo, Vincent, Greg, and Blaise are all sharing the other room, and while Harry thinks this is inconvenient for _them_ , he won't complain (as selfish as that is). He has a perfect blonde angel right in bed with him for the whole day, with no disruptions or classes or homework. The door's locked, and undoubtedly the others will be sleeping 'til late afternoon to catch up on the rest that was sacrificed in favor of schoolwork. Hopefully, if Harry's lucky, sleeping won't be the only thing that he and Draco will do. 

"Go to  _sleep_ ," Draco whines petulantly, voice heavy and slurred with exhaustion. He buries his nose adorably in Harry's collarbone, leaving no room for argument, and Harry falls back asleep slower than he normally would've, heart fluttering rapidly at the close contact. The warmth of the blankets and silk sheets are eventually what tug him back under.  

When he wakes up again, Draco is hard. So stiff that he's tenting the silky sheets, and. Harry's unsure. Because some days the blonde adores being woken up with a tongue in his most intimate spot, wriggling and moaning helplessly as all of his nerves down there are wetly stimulated. Other days, he likes to have the control, likes to dominate and turn Harry into a shaking, desperate mess. Likes to watch things fall apart under his work and be put back together more wholly than before. It's hard to judge which mood he's in without checking first.

Harry slides back the sheets and pulls Draco's pants as well, exposing his lovely cock to the morning air. He examines it for a moment, letting it rest in his palm (Honestly, Harry's a little bit obsessed with how it curves on the end. It always seems to reach that spot inside of him that fries his nerves) Without much hesitation, he licks a fat stripe up the underside, and then caresses Draco's balls with his tongue before gathering it all in his mouth. It can be seen as either a submissive or caring gesture and it's a safe bet to gauge what mood Draco's in. 

Draco comes to consciousness all at once, gasping and groaning as he flexes his toes. Harry continues with his work, sucking and slurping wetly, licking over the bubbling, leaking slit constantly. He ignores his own throbbing hard-on, trying to heighten Draco's pleasure and give him the best sort of morning surprise. When Draco's awake enough, it's obvious. He pulls Harry off by his wild bedhead hair, and flips him over so that he's lying on his stomach. Harry shivers in anticipation because, well. One thing about his blonde is that he's unpredictable, completely and entirely so. Harry never knows what to expect, and it makes his dick twitch a little as he shudders and arches his back. 

"Pillow under your hips, baby," Draco says in his raspy morning voice and  _god_. It makes Harry fall a little more in love, and so he puts a silky pillow under his hips, wincing at the thought of how the precome will most definitely stain the fabric. Before he can have too many qualms about it, Draco rubs his cold hands up and down his bare back soothingly, leaving trails of goosebumps behind.

"I know a cleaning spell for the pillow, sweetheart," He whispers in Harry's ear, so gently, "Don't you worry your pretty little head. Just stay there and let me take care of you." 

So  _that's_ what this is about. Yesterday's scene at the platform comes to Harry's mind, and he _knows_  that Draco's thinking about it too, can tell that it's upset him more than he originally let on. 

Draco kneads his arse for a few minutes, thumb swiping over his hole teasingly. Sometimes lying a finger on his rim with just the slightest hint of pressure before pulling away. Harry can't help but whine in frustration. Blowing Draco made him horny and so he ruts against his pillow, whimpering pathetically when he gets a warning smack on his arse. Draco waits for Harry to still, opens up his two cheeks to look at him. It's exposing, and vulnerable, and he flushes in the best way as he feels his lover stare from behind.  _  
_

Draco murmurs under his breath, thumbing over the tight muscle, "A gorgeous boy with a gorgeous arse, hmm?" Draco is absolutely filthy, and unapologetically so. 

" _Draco_ ," Harry moans, his voice cracking in frustration. 

"Don't be impatient."

He sighs and buries his face into another pillow, because Draco hates being rushed. He loves to take his time, won't listen to anyone else. And whenever Harry tries to speed him up, Draco abandons all good pretenses. He'll easily leave Harry swollen and achy to rut one out by himself, shaking like a dirty little boy who can't get enough. Or he'll fuck him hard and fast into the mattress, skipping most of prep so there's a sting and making Harry come writhing on his cock over and over until his voice is hoarse from shrieking, quivering with almost painful aftershocks. 

Even with the threat of this, Harry can't stop squirming, though Draco tells him to stay still twice. 

"Darling," The blonde says, and Harry flinches at first because Draco has every right to be impatient with him. But his tone, strangely enough, is gentle, "We both know you're not naughty. Can you be my good boy? And behave for me?" 

It sounds like there's a deeper implication, and Harry wriggles in discomfort. He can't stop thinking about yesterday, how his face flushed with shame, how distraught and _abandoned_ he felt. How he's been so mercilessly ignored. And he knows that Draco's mind is probably on the same track. So he nods, obeying the scene Draco's obviously following, because it's  _true_. He needs to feel like he's good, good and safe and loved. Needs to feel cared for. Would jump off a building for the comfort it gives. 

"I'll behave," Harry whispers into the pillow, voice cracking. He feels tears start to wet the silky fabric of the pillow, and hates himself for it. (Harry's pathetic, and stupid, and he's so attached to this boy that the blonde's mood can either make or break his day. He's falling apart at the very seams, and there's nothing to stop him. Someday soon, Draco will leave him too, will want to shake off his disturbing existence and find someone else who can satisfy him the way he deserves)

He tries to muffle a sob, tries to hide the way his breath hitches painfully, but it seeps out anyways. He can feel Draco hesitate for a fraction of a second before finally caving, giving him what he wants. Burying his fingers in him, pressing his sweet spot so hard it almost hurts and making his insides burn with pleasure. His back arches obscenely, hips begging for more. All the while, as Harry climbs closer and closer to orgasm, Draco talks to him. 

"You're so good, sweetheart, so lovely," He says, comforting words pouring out of his mouth in a way they never have before, "And you're so very strong to put up with everything you've been through these past few months. They've all got nothing on you, nothing at all. You're perfect in every way and you're my good boy, you haven't done anything wrong."

He continues to murmur sweet praise until Harry comes.

While he's still writhing with orgasm, Draco slicks himself up hurriedly behind him. He presses into him, deep and perfect, and Harry mewls as his prostate gets pressed into again. It's swollen from previous ministrations, sensitive and throbbing. Draco gives him a minute to adjust, before he proceeds to fuck the living daylights out of him, hard and _deep_. Harry's sobbing by the end, he's so sore. 

Afterwards, Harry returns the favor by blowing him again, and then they cast a cleaning charm on the pillow before lying back in bed. He buries his face into Draco's beautiful collarbones, quickly latching onto his rabbiting pulse and warm skin. He feels fingers card through his hair and it's a lovely distraction from his distorted thoughts. 

So maybe perfection isn't laced into his bones, isn't coursing through his blood stream. That's okay, it's  _bearable_ , because he'll never be perfect, never, no matter how much weight he loses or how beautiful he looks. But being Draco's good boy was just as rewarding. And lying in a secure grip and feeling care and attention seep from the other boy into his pores made everything seem okay. Not perfect, never so. But satisfying enough. 

He goes to sleep again, sated and warm.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I wrote this in one go, with no rough drafts. hope it's good!


	8. Chapter 8

The start of the holidays is alright. There's moments, sure. Moments where he feels the phantom laughter and voices that _should_ be ringing in his ears. He's never spent an actual Christmas with the Weasleys, but there were always promised plans and anticipation for it. Ron's told him about how his mother makes too much fudge and treacle tart, ends up stuffing everyone until they can't walk without an uncomfortable pressure in their bellies. Harry's always wondered what that could be like, observing a proper family functioning through the eyes of a guest. But despite this, all along he's known that he was never a permanent fixture in their family history, would be but a sliver of a mention a hundred years from now. He also knows that he's not even worth a comment in his own family, is only a ghost that haunts the house during holidays as though he's perpetually unwelcome.

Harry thinks about it often, how he's never belonged, how he never had a permanent spot to call his _own_. He can thank Voldemort for that. What would he be doing at that very minute if no scar puckered his skin, if he was solid and full and his very existence burst through the seams of the Potter house with the knowledge that he fit in? He wouldn't be lying in this stone-cold house with an icy feeling of loneliness seeping into his bloodstream, that's for sure. 

It was almost unbearable, knowing that he had almost obtained that feeling this year, had almost slipped into a place where things made sense and where he felt comfortable, safe with people he trusted. Being suspended like this, in a constant state of insecurity and pangs of regret, was exhausting. He just wanted somewhere to belong, to slot into like a missing puzzle piece. 

"Babe," Draco sits next to him at the table. He's dangling a cigarette between his fingers carelessly, taking long, deep drags in the hollow house meant for many, many more occupants. Harry thinks that maybe it's how Hermione would've held a candy cane while they opened presents, suckling on it when both of her hands were occupied, divvying the wrapped boxes out between everyone. 

Blaise comes in. The holidays seems to have worn him down, the toll of being around his pessimistic, emotional mother adding on to his already existent problems. He looks thinner, more fragile, and he carries himself with the attitude of a person who's trying hard to catch all of his glass plates before they fall and break. His bones are prominent in an unhealthy way, stress melting off his wiry muscles and dainty limbs until there's not enough flesh to support his own body. But it's almost as though he isn't aware of his skeletal appearance. Blaise sits down at the table and rubs at his wrist, watching the two of them with mild interest. 

Draco's attention shifts, and Harry can  _see_ the way his pale eyes hover over Blaise's collarbone. It looks like it's straining to get out of his skin, "Let me make something for breakfast. I'm starving." A lie, as Draco had a pastry not ten minutes ago before lighting a cigarette. Harry bites his lip.  

"'M not hungry," Blaise mumbles distractedly. He's forcing indifference, looking off in another direction, but he starts to twist his fingers. Draco looks at his friend sternly, the refusal completely ignored, and Blaise sinks back into himself. 

"You've got to eat." 

The Slytherin sighs in frustration, obviously about to spit something nasty out, but Harry comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

"It's okay," He says quietly. Blaise is much more difficult to talk to than the others, more secretive about the things he's going through. He denies it when immediately confronted, but in private moments hovering over toilet bowls he's told Harry about the way he likes to see the bones, likes to see the weight drop as he takes control. Likes the rush of denying himself things, of feeling lighter. And. Harry _understands_ , even if it's just a small amount of comprehension. He knows what Blaise feels, to a certain degree, and so he supposes he can relate better than Draco is able to, "He's just worried about you. As am I." 

Blaise shrugs, "I don't mean to make you worry."  

"Would you eat something, still? _Please_?" 

"I'll eat  _something_ ," The boy gripes. It's a minuscule step in the grand scheme of things, but it's something, from the way Draco's eyebrows shoot up at the lessened resistance. It makes him feel a little bit better, like maybe he's useful at something. 

But that night, when there's crimson staining the cracks of the exquisite tile from Theo's steady hand and Greg smokes almost a whole pack, Harry goes back to his previous headspace. This doesn't feel like home, and it doesn't feel okay. 

Someday soon, they're all going to be six feet in the ground and Harry's last thoughts will be full of regret and poison and guilt to the very core, unless something doesn't change soon. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think:)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today is a MUCHx1000 better day than it's been lately. thank god

Christmas and the rest of the holidays is great, it really is, honest. He and Draco fuck almost every day, and all of them get high and stoned and drunk and every other thing in the book. Almost every taboo in the Wizarding world that make his head spin with the feeling of rebellion. Draco finally tries the acid with him and they have a good trip, surprisingly enough. The blonde giggles breathlessly and keeps touching Harry's face, staring at nothing for seconds that morph into hours. It's extremely strong, but when they finally come down, there's a feverish promise to do it again. 

They have a spacious house all to themselves (Blaise's mum glides in and out of tune with her own strange schedule) and loads of money to spend, and they have a hell of a time.

But. (Because there's always a 'but' added, isn't there? Nothing is ever perfectly perfect or completely horrid) When he has enough clarity all Harry can think about is Mrs. Weasley’s good cooking, her constricting hugs, how he and Hermione and the Weasleys always discovered something fun to do to pass the time, something that _wasn’t_ different kinds of illegally obtained highs. He misses those simpler moments, and it almost kills him that he could be doing all that right then.

Then he remembers everyone hates him, he’s a _goodfornothing_ and might as well die for all they care. So he tries to forget them. It's hard of course, to focus on what could've been and the green grass on the other side, but he manages with plenty of distractions. 

However. After the holidays, something shifts ever so slightly.

The first day back in class is Charms with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Harry, predictably, is sitting by himself. He’s got his head in his arms trying to nurse a pounding hangover because only Draco seems to know a good curing charm for it and he’s not here. The blonde's attending fucking History of Magic with the others at the moment and Harry just wants to disappear, wants to not be able to feel the prickling stares tickle his neck. 

Suddenly, he spots a movement in his peripheral vision and raises his head a fraction of a centimeter to get a better view. Hermione's sweeping her small library of books into her bag, seemingly fixated on something. A second later, she leaves Ron, Seamus, Dean and Neville at the table meant for four and she stops right next to Harry, as though it were nothing absolutely monumental or noteworthy. As though the two of them hadn't spent months living completely separate lives. It throws him off guard, because never in a million years would he have anticipated  _that_ to happen.

“May I sit here?” She asks nervously, yet determined, and he nods, shifting over a tad to make room for her things. There’s ink on her hands as she pulls out her stuff once more and it makes his intestines curl with nostalgia. He feels like he's missing something. 

It’s simple and quiet, no questions or accusations, and as the minutes pass he’s still perplexed, in all honesty. About halfway through class he pulls out a pill from his book bag to pop in out of habit and Hermione looks at him sharply, her nice façade evaporating. Of course. He never really expected it to be real in the first place. Harry ingests the tablet without looking at her so he doesn't have to feel any guiltier than he already does. 

But then, she goes back to her work and smiles at him ten minutes later and he thinks maybe she doesn’t loathe his guts entirely. Possibly.

The next class they have, Herbology, she goes to stand by him as well. She doesn’t comment about how his hands are unsteady or how there’s no flesh on his fingers or wrists, but he can tell her eyes flicker there. He blames Blaise.

The next day proves to be much of the same, and she even begins to talk quietly to him. He's surprised when she first says something, her voice shaky but growing more and more sure as he listens. She tells him little details about how Christmas was at the Weasleys. Talks about how Mrs. Weasley cried a lot, but doesn’t say why explicitly, making Harry think that there must’ve been something wrong with the oldest Weasley children.

She also talks about how it wasn’t the same without him, and how she has his presents on his bed in the dormitory. He wouldn’t know. He unpacked his stuff in Draco, Theo, Blaise, Vincent, and Greg’s room when they returned from the holidays, and he sleeps in the same bed as his blonde now. He's sure that there are a plethora of rules set in place against this action, but. It’s comfortable, and he doesn’t have to go to the Gryffindor common room ever again if he doesn’t want to.

Except, now he unfortunately has an incentive to do so.

Hermione also lets slip a comment about how Ron had stayed up in his room all during break, before biting her lip, tucking the next words back inside. Ron isn’t one to shut himself away normally, but Harry doesn’t pry. The redhead's life has now branched off from his, and while it wasn't a clean break by any means, he's relieved to discover that the pain of thinking about him has numbed to nostalgia and sadness. 

(He hasn’t said much in a while now, ever since he realized he would rather listen than talk and no one wants to hear unnecessary words anyways. Silence is best.)

The next week, he gets rewarded. They’re in Care of Magical Creatures, without the Slytherins for once, and Hagrid’s realized by now that Harry’s usually too out of it to hold a conversation, so he leaves him alone. Ron is laughing and conversing with Seamus, but he keeps looking over at Harry and Hermione and it makes Harry’s stomach churn uncomfortably with unease. He hates the scrutiny he's been put under all of a sudden. 

They’re supposed to creating a diet plan for infant dragons, but Hermione’s been talking to him the entire period as they work. Even now, she’s chattering lowly still, under her breath about nonsense things, like she’s scared Harry will leave if she stops talking. Then, suddenly, she sucks in a big breath as though inhaling courage and says quickly, “Ron misses you, Harry.”

Harry looks up anxiously. He feels the most aware he's been in weeks, “What?”

His balance feels unsteady, and he wishes right then that he wasn’t trying to wean off the pills. He could use four, or five, in this strange moment.

Hermione rolls her eyes with an exasperated expression, huffing a breath, “Harry, he misses you like _crazy_. He looks at you constantly. He shut himself away at Christmas almost the whole time and wouldn’t talk to anyone. He even wants me to pass along a message, but I told him that he had to tell you himself.” She recites these facts like Potion ingredients. The ingredients of a Friendship potion, or even better, a Rekindling Friendship potion. If only it were that easy.

Harry picks at a loose thread in his robes. His head is swirling and there are too many _feelings_ , popping out of his pores all at once. It’s too early in the day for this, too early for anything. He’ll never be ready to have this conversation.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Hermione presses, a little concerned with his silence.

“It’s a bit late for this, isn’t it Hermione?” Harry’s mumbles, trying to detach himself from the situation quickly ( _I can't do this, I can't go through this again_ ), “I mean, it’s been months. He’s made it clear ten times over that he hates me.” The words still hurt to say, even when eroded by time. 

The brunette’s eyes are screaming sympathy, “I know. I know that must’ve been the worst thing –”

“Don’t,” Harry cuts her off, “You don’t know anything, nothing at all. So don't pretend that you do. I wanted to _kill_ myself, Hermione. For _weeks_ , before Draco stepped in.” The truth slips out of him before he can think about  _consequences_ and staying silent. Guilt settles in his brain for dumping all of this on her, but it's not as though he's going to take it back.

Hermione’s eyes widen a little, but thank god, she doesn’t say anything. She just goes back to studying, scooting a little closer to him as she does so, and he doesn’t know if he can ever forgive her or fully trust her again, but he lets her inch forward.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any of you guys like one direction, too, my story there requires some serious attention. Otherwise, enjoy this one!

“I want to quit,” Harry admits quietly to Draco one night, their limbs tangled together in a messy heap. It's out of the blue, honestly, shocking when said aloud, but he knows in his mind that some part of him has been wanting to say this for a while. He feels the blonde tense up noticeably in the sheets before flipping over to face Harry.

"Quit what?" 

"You know," Harry shuts his eyes for a fraction of a second, to find some relief from the burning gaze, "Everything, I s'pose."

“Why?” Draco questions carefully, cupping his face and staring at him in askance. He sighs, burdened with the task of articulating what he means.

“I just –” Harry huffs, “I’m getting worse… I can’t even _function_ without taking six or seven pills and I smoke almost a pack of cigarettes a day. Weaning myself off of it all doesn't work. I can’t stop drinking, and I haven’t eaten properly in forever. My skin hurts all of the time, and it’s getting warmer. I won’t be able to wear clothes that cover my wrists soon.” Each sentence is a plead for understanding and acceptance.

He’s been thinking about this for a long time, clearly.

“Oh, hon,” Draco responds quietly, seemingly at a loss for words, “I, er, I don’t know how I can help you. I have no desire to quit, and I don’t think any of the other boys do either. You – you like what we do though, right? The sex?” He seems uncertain all of a sudden, twisting the sheets in his bony fingers.  

“Of course,” Harry assures him, “I just… I don’t like destroying my body like this anymore. It makes me feel so guilty.” Having sex with Draco is the only thing that he can do without feeling a wave of stress, now. 

“Well, I’m not sure we’re the best help for this at all, but I promise I will support you to my best ability no matter what you do. If you want to quit, that’s fine, it's your body and it's your life that we've managed to corrupt. And …” Harry hears him swallow, “If you want to be friends with Weasley and Granger again too, that is completely and totally fine. A hundred percent.”

Harry’s breath hitches, “What?” The conversation's suddenly plunged into forbidden territory. 

He can see Draco roll his eyes, even in the darkness, “Granger’s been with you nonstop for the past week, and whenever I look at Weasley I see him looking at _you_. The others and I have already discussed it… we’re completely fine with what we do _and_. Our situations are permanent. I can’t help that my father beats me, and Blaise can’t help that his mother is a crazy bitch, and so on. This is something that you _can_ change, though. It’s obvious that Hermione and Ron are better for you and your health in the grand scheme of things, they haven't gone destroying you, and you’ve been around them for a long time now. If you want to be friends with them again, I would understand, because they’re in your own House and you have a lot of ties to them that go far back.

“I just thought you should know, because I know you've been thinking about it. I’ll support you no matter what you do, and I'll try not to get jealous.”

Harry sighs unhappily, weighted with newly materialized decisions to make, “It’s just so complicated.”

“I know,” Draco clicks his tongue sympathetically, “I know, and they made you feel like shit, too. I would love it if you stayed with us, baby, and I would be sad if you left. But I would also be happy knowing that you’re around better influences. So whatever you decide, I’m here. Or not, if that's what you want.”

           

Harry wants to have more time to consider this new development, have more time to ponder things and second-guess himself many times over. However, he’s not given even that, because the next day (the _very next day_ ) at lunch Ron stands up at the Gryffindor table. Harry notices the sudden movement almost right away. He keeps that particular spot in his peripheral vision out of unabashed habit. The redhead has clear resolve in his eyes that can be seen even from here, and his robes sweep around his feet as he starts walking, no, _storming_ towards the Slytherins.

Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny, Fred, and George are watching him and Ron, their eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, and he’s terrified because it looks like Ron’s about to swing one at him. Harry can feel the blood leave his face, turns his face into Draco’s shoulder for a fraction of a second so he can breathe him in for reassurance. 

Draco reaches for his hand under the table, rubbing at it with his thumb, and Theo nudges his foot a few seconds later. He looks up to see Ron standing there, face flushed and his arms crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha i'm so sorry, cliffhanger


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay HOPEFULLY this throws you for a loop, except not actually. a good loop. an internally screaming with a smile loop. hopefully. this chapter has a shite-ton of dialogue so that sucks but yano.

“Can we talk?” The Weasley spits out, skin tone nearly matching his hair.  _Everyone’s eyes are on them_.

Harry sorely regrets trying once more to wean himself off, because he feels dizzy as anything and a joint to calm his nerves is sorely needed right about now. 

Draco curls forward protectively and presses his lips against his ear, ignoring the redhead for a second. 

“We don’t care what you do, love,” He whispers, breathing courage into him. Harry nods, squeezes his hand underneath the table, and then flickers his gaze up at Ron. He hopes he doesn't look as afraid as he feels. Fear has heightened every sense in him all of a sudden. His body's sparked to life, heart thumping for attention in his chest, lungs faltering, eyes darting. 

“Sure.”

Ron stalks off towards the exit and he follows. Harry knows everyone’s still watching them, all of the attendance of Hogwarts and probably the other visiting schools as well. The attention's unavoidable at this point.

He turns a corner and feels relief seep into his bones now that they’re safely out of sight. Ron keeps going, though, turning more corners and weaving his way in and out of corridors (never even glancing back to check if Harry's still there), until they’re on one of the higher floors and there’s a plethora of stone benches lined up against stained glass windows. It’s pretty, and awash with color in the afternoon light.

This would be a good place to die. If he was ever serious about it again. He would wait, until sunset, when the evening light bursts with gold and there’s lots of colorful shadows and, maybe during dinner when it’s almost the end of term…

“Fuck, Harry,” Ron says, bringing him back to the present. His voice sounds the same way that Harry feels, unsure. It puts them both on some kind of equal ground.

“I-I fucked up mate. Just, just hear me out, alright?” The Weasley's breath is ragged, and he looks vulnerable where he stands. Harry nods and sits on a bench, curls his knees to his chest. He's not ready for this conversation that's inevitably coming his way. 

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far. Ever,” Ron begins, “I was so mad at you, and I knew it was irrational because your ego isn't really big enough to put your name in the Goblet of Fire. We all know that. But. At the same time I was furious, because you were getting all the attention _again_ , and I was just me still. So I wanted to ignore you, make you feel left out so maybe you’d get some understanding of how _I_ felt,” He laughs hollowly. Again, Harry is not ready for this. At all. 

“I didn’t expect you to fucking disappear off the face of the goddamn planet. It all happened so fast. Even Hermione didn’t know where you were anymore, and for a long time I thought you’d snuck off of Hogwarts grounds or some other crazy-arsed thing. Until one day, I see you _smoking._ With _Goyle_. I didn’t know what to think, and I was so angry, at myself for not being there when you needed it, at Hermione for not doing anything, at you for just abandoning Gryffindor at the drop of a hat,” Ron says, and Harry raises his eyebrows coldly, “Okay, well it wasn’t completely unjustified, I know that. I was a downright twat and I know that, too. But then, it just got _worse_ , Harry. You didn’t even come to the first Triwizard event and none of us knew what to think. I was planning on making everything right over Christmas, and then, I figured out you were going to Zabini's instead. It fucking hurt, knowing that I was just some stranger to you now and it was all my fault.

“I know I was a bloody wanker and the biggest bastard the world’s ever seen, Harry. I know that. I know that this is _all_ my fault, and Lupin and my parents had no problem reminding me of it constantly over the holidays. And then Hermione told me you had wanted to _kill yourself_ , because of something _I_ did, and I - ” Ron’s hands are shaking now, “I just, I wanted to talk to you before this got any worse. Before I lost you completely. I’m sorry, Harry. I really am, and I miss you like fucking crazy, mate.”

Harry’s brain is chaos, utter chaos.

He's forgotten how to even process things, because Ron looks sincere and it’s such a mindfuck and he really, really wants a cig just to stall for time. All the veins in his head seem to have been filled with helium. What does someone even say in response to a soliloquy of that standard? 

“You haven’t lost me,” He says quietly, “I was here the whole bloody time, you arse. Even when you called me a faggot in Transfiguration.” Ron looks at the ground and his whole face flushes a beet red at the reminder. Good. Harry can still identify the resulting slices from that day. 

“Yeah,” The redhead murmurs, ashamed. He's never been one to really hide his emotions well, and his whole face is contorted with guilt, “Well, Dean and Neville have stopped talking to me altogether because of the way I acted towards you, if that makes you feel better.”

“Minimally,” Harry admits. 

“They want you back, Harry, they all do, honest. Hermione… she cries like crazy, _all the time_ because she just misses you so much. One time she found you, erm, drinking with Nott, and she almost lost her mind. She's worried for you, mate. She wouldn’t shut up for days about how I was a royal prat and I needed to get my head on straight. Still thinks I'm a right git. Even Ginny and Fred and George barely talk to me anymore… only Seamus will look me in the eye still.”

“You deserve it,” Harry mumbles, pressing his forehead to his knees because he just, can’t take this right now.

“I know,” Ron sighs resignedly, in a way that makes him sound older than he is, “And I know I can’t ever fix what I’ve done or even begin making it up to you. I know you’re happy with the Slytherins and they’ve accepted you. I just … I wanted to say I’m sorry. And hope that maybe you can begin to start forgiving me for everything I've done.”

It sounds very final, this goodbye, and as Ron stands up he realizes this might be his last chance, “I’m not happy with the Slytherins, though.” _Not entirely_.

The redhead’s eyes widen, “Pardon?”

“I miss you and Hermione,” Harry says simply, truthfully ( _What is he doing?_ ), “And I miss Ginny, and I miss Neville and Dean and George and Fred, and I even miss that wanker Seamus as well.”

“They miss you too,” Ron confesses, “Like I said, only Seamus really looks me in the eye. The rest of them miss you so much and. They’re sorry, you know. Truly.” He wonders how true that statement is, but decides he'll focus on that another day. 

Harry brushes his thumb against his other wrist distractedly, feeling the cuts underneath his robes and resulting satisfaction jolting down his spine. It’s like a warm secret, that only his Slytherins know, the secret of self-destruction. He’s fine if it stays that way forever. Part of him, though, the sensible part, pipes up and says there’s no way that Harry can detox and quit all of his habits and be perfect again in no time flat. The Gryffindors will begin to find out in good time, he’s sure. Most likely, find out everything. It terrifies him. 

And of course, there's no way to get rid of the scars. 

“I’m not the same, though,” He warns him solemnly, “I – really – you lot don’t want to be around me. I’m fucked up.”

“It’s my fault, though, isn’t it?” Ron shrugs, “Hermione mental about it, too. You should hear her going on in the common room at night.”

Which means other Gryffindors must know about his substance abuse. Great. Really fucking fantastic.

He doesn’t know what to do, because Ron’s clearly offering him a choice. Go back or stay like this forever, stay in this surreal world with Draco and the others where there are no worries and no problems, just self-hatred and self-deprecation. 

He knows, logically, that he will die if he stays with Draco, Blaise, Theo, Vince, and Greg. Knows that one day Blaise will be puking up blood and his insides will be so wrecked he'll have to have a feeding tube, knows that one day Greg will get lung cancer or suffocate on ash, knows that one day Theo will slice a tad too deep and bleed out, knows that one day Vince will drink his own weight in alcohol and vomit until his life is over. And he knows that one day Draco will live as a shadow, a fraction of the person he used to be, a martyr. All Harry knows is that  _doesn’t_ want to end up the same way.

Draco was right, after all. His own problems are fixable, while theirs are permanent, and that makes all of the difference. Especially now that he's being handed the solution by freckly fingers.

God, he’ll just miss them so fucking much. Everything about them, all of the memories they've accumulated, the secrets they exchanged and the sense of belonging he felt whenever he hung out with them. He'll miss their support and understanding, how they all shared passions and horrors and dealt with everything together. He'll really miss it. 

“I’ll… I’ll think about it, Ron,” He says finally, “I’m not promising anything, alright? I still haven’t forgiven you lot and I dunno if I ever could. But I really do miss you guys, and I want things to go back to the way they were, somewhat.”

Ron’s smiling despite his words, small but still evidently present, “Of course. Bloody hell… Hermione’s going to be thrilled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually adore reading your guys' comments. holy hell. they make me so happy!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll probably start updating every week

The two of them head back, and Hermione seems to relax at the Gryffindor table as they come into view again. When Harry reaches the Slytherin table he fills them in on all that was said, everything. He sugarcoats the bits said about not being happy with the Slytherins, but other than that, he's blunt. Theo looks a little more betrayed than the others, and Draco deflates when Harry talks about how he wants to go return to some of his old friends.

Harry starts getting upset, he can feel his throat constricting at their disappointment in him, and lovely Blaise comes to his rescue.

“We understand, Harry,” He says, looking extra hard at Theo before continuing, “We’re a little hurt and we’ll miss you, but we understand. They’re good for you. And you’re always free to come back to us if you’re in trouble.”

“I might take you up on that,” Harry mutters. His stomach is already turning in dread, “I don’t know if I can do this. What if they all hate me?”

“Take it a day at a time,” Draco advises seriously, sounding wise beyond his years, scooting closer now that some of the stiffness has faded from him, “It takes so long to put someone back together, and you can’t expect changes to start happening right away.”

Harry sniffles, “I’m still buying you guys stuff, though. I like making you happy.”

“And I, you,” Draco says, “I won’t buy you any messed up shit, though. I’ll get you like, a book, or new robes, or something. Because, we’re still mates, right?”

“Of _course_ ,” Harry insists, hurt, “I love having you around, Draco. So much." 

           

He tries to follow Draco’s advice and takes it one (cautious, panic-inducing) step at a time. The next day, Ron hesitantly sits with him and Hermione in class. It feels strange and foreign and yet so familiar that it gives him vertigo.  Harry has  _urges_ , mostly to take pills and knock himself out, intensified by the redhead's presence, but Hermione’s watching him extra carefully as though to make sure he doesn’t slip up. He wants to be fine, for them, (because he doesn't care about anything for himself) and so he sits silently and tries not to pinch his skin.

It’s so hard though. He scratches at his scabs to calm down.

After class ends, it’s supposed to be lunch, but Harry feels awkward and out of place. He doesn’t want to sit with the Slytherins in case he upsets Ron and Hermione and he doesn’t want to sit with the Gryffindors in case he upsets Draco, Theo, Blaise, Vincent, and Greg and he’s so fucking _confused_. It's a decision that he won't be able to make without feeling inevitably horrible so. As Ron and Hermione are packing up their things he bolts out the door, down a corridor to his immediate right and eventually finding his way to the library. He bolts past aisle after aisle to the very dustiest corners. The empty feeling in his stomach satisfies him, and he thinks of Blaise with a twinge of melancholy. Harry kind of wants one of the Slytherins to take him right now and help him forget who he is because  _this_ , dealing with real life, is too much and it's really only been a day. 

He takes two pills and tries not to feel guilty.

           

Harry’s stuck in an awkward limbo for three days. He sleeps in the Slytherin dormitory and fills Draco in on what happens with Ron and Hermione, and while Draco tries his hardest to be supportive he's only human. He becomes upset when he realizes that soon Harry will very likely return to the domain of Gryffindor house, where he belongs. To calm him down, they shag relentlessly, and so as a result Harry spends all of his time in these few precious days making Draco feel better and also trying to please Ron and Hermione in addition. He feels like an uncomfortable in-between, that belongs nowhere really, and it stings. So mostly during meals he escapes, disappears somewhere else. Sitting down at a table would be making a definitive choice and he’s really, _really_ not prepared to do that or to face the consequences from doing that. 

On the fourth day, however, Ron grabs his arm right after class. Before he has a chance to get away. 

“It’s lunch now,” The redhead opts to state the obvious. He looks a little pale but also determined. Harry can see it in the set of his jaw, and he knows that he’s not getting out of this one. Ron, he remembers, can be downright stubborn when he wants to be. Changing his opinion can be like trying to move a mountain. And while it wasn't a huge deal when Harry had lived his entire life under the thumb of his aunt and uncle anyways (to say they were stubborn would be the most generous way of describing them), it was unsettling to him now.

“Is it really?” Harry retorts sarcastically, trying to tug his arm away and failing miserably. Ron's arm looks almost thick when placed next to his, but fortunately for him that's not the center of focus at the moment. 

“You haven’t eaten in days,” Hermione accuses, joining the conversation uninvited, “We’ve noticed. Just, come sit with us, please? I promise Harry, it won’t be odd. It'll just be like old times, and if you become uncomfortable you can leave.”

His heart rate picks up, skidding and bumping painfully against his chest. He _can’t_. He can’t deal with this right now, can’t look at Theo, Vincent, Blaise, Greg, and especially _Draco’s_ faces when he sits down with Ron and Hermione. It’ll be betrayal, a stab in the back to them. His throat closes up.

“I can’t,” Harry whispers. Something tells him that they trade glances, but he's not looking in that direction. 

“Why not?” Hermione presses, too close, too in his face, just _no_. He rips his arm away.

“I can’t, Hermione, okay?” He says, his voice just barely trembling, “Just, not right now.”

It’s the first time he’s addressed either of them directly since they started talking again. Maybe that’s what causes them to hesitate, and he takes advantage of that moment to get away, immediately heading off down the corridor. His heart is pounding and he doesn’t know why, he just goes to the first place he thinks of to make everything quiet again. Draco’s bed. When he gets there, to the comforting green silk and fluffy pillows, he starts crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo


	13. Chapter 13

That’s how Draco finds him, a while later. Harry doesn’t hear him come in, just feels a sudden warm weight next to him and it’s so comforting that he whimpers a little bit into the sheets.

“What’s the matter, babes?” Draco asks. Not firm or pressing, only present, and that’s what's important. It takes a while for Harry to answer, but Draco waits right next to him, the very picture of patience. Meanwhile, he tries to sort through his chaos of thoughts in order to string up a logical explanation for why he's an emotional mess. 

“Ron, and Hermione,” He sniffs in explanation. Draco holds him closer, curls his arms around his bony waist, “I’m just, I’m not ready. They’re trying to get close - to me - again, and it’s nice and I _know_ it’ll get better. I  _do_. But I’m not ready to sit at the table with them, Draco, I’m not.” Harry starts crying again, like the tears never even stopped flowing. 

This is wrong. He shouldn't be upset about something so meaningless and trivial. He should be picking fights with basilisks and solving riddles and warding off Dementors, not crying in a dungeon over friend drama. It's ridiculous, what he's come to. 

“Shh,” Draco consoles. There’s a shifting behind them, and Harry realizes that Theo and Greg have entered, too, “You know it’s alright, love, we won’t be mad. They were your friends first, we’ve only been close to you for about a third of the time that they’ve been and it would only make sense that you seek them out for comfort. You belong there, in Gryffindor. As much as I hate to say it." 

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear these words, as true as they may be. They just sting. It's a sugarcoated rejection, like a mother bird pushing her young out of their nest to fly or fall.  

“Why can’t I have all of you?” He hiccups, “Why can’t we _all_ be friends?” There's a million and one reasons why it'll never happen, but one can always hope against the circumstances. However, he's very well aware just how ludicrous he sounds in this pathetic moment. 

Theo speaks up from behind, “We’re not gonna disappear the moment you go sit with them, Harry. We’ll still be here, if you get in a row with them or need some company. We’ll be here a year or two from now if you want. But you know that they’re better for you. We all do. They always have been. So no, even  _I_ won’t get mad if you leave us. I want the best for you, we all do, because you’re the most genuinely good person I’ve ever met and you deserve good things." 

Harry doesn't feel good, though. He just feels contaminated, spineless. 

“Sit with them,” Greg says gruffly, gently, but firmly, “For fuck’s sake, Harry, I don’t care if you have a  _threesome_  with them,” Draco visibly shudders, shrinking into him at the thought, “So long as you’re getting what’s best for you. They want to be your friend again, so why would you deny yourself of that?”

“Okay,” Harry sniffles. He knows it's true. He always did know, but having someone tell him what to do is much easier than making the decision himself, “Can I still stay here at night, though? At least, until I get more comfortable?”

“Sure thing, babes,” Draco is quick to say, probably for his own benefit but Harry doesn’t care. Draco deserves it. 

Hermione and Ron don’t press the matter for a few days afterwards, giving him the space that he needs. And when Harry’s stomach grumbles one day right as class ends for lunch, it’s like a sign from somewhere, that he might finally be ready to do this. It’ll be awkward and weird and alienating, of course, but he  _can_. 

The two of them look up at him in askance when his stomach whines, and he hums quietly in assent, “I think I’ll come eat with you lot today.”

“ _Brilliant_ ,” Ron grins, packing up his stuff with newfound eagerness. 

Hermione beams, “Thank you, Harry.”

She hugs him, and it feels like it grounds (not traps) him.

Nostalgic moments of _just like old times_ flicker in Harry's mind, as they walk down to the Great Hall together. He’s wedged between Ron and Hermione, and if he ignores the itching on his wrists and hips and in the back of his throat he can pretend that it  _is_ like old times. That he’s not about thirty pounds lighter, that he doesn’t have hundreds of new scars lined up like tallies (But those are easily concealed as of now, so he doesn’t have to worry about someone seeing them. That's a bridge to cross for another day.) 

It aches like a festering bullet wound when they enter the Great Hall and he sees the lovely Malfoy heir's face. Draco's expression twists unwillingly, and then he quickly corrects it, offering Harry a weak smile in replacement. It hurts so much, but they all agreed on this. He’ll apologize to Draco tonight, underneath the sheets.

 _Everyone’s_  looking at them. That’s what it feels like and that’s also the truth. Harry looks up fleetingly to the staff table and sees even Dumbledore’s eyes on him, surveying in muted interest. He can’t tell if the professor approves of his decision or not, because everyone in here knows by now that Harry Potter owns a reputation compiled of poor choices. Ron has a hand on his back, though, and the gesture of affection makes it only just bearable.          

They sit down at the Gryffindor table, across from Dean, Seamus, and Neville and next to Fred, George, and Jordan. Slowly, slowly, slowly, chatter resumes in the Great Hall, and Harry just stares at his plate. He's never felt so out of place here. Hogwarts was supposed to be the one place where he _belonged_ , where he had friends and had a house to be sorted into. This is supposed to be his safe haven, not another place where he feels so uncomfortable and embarrassed.  

 _Fuck_. He wants to leave. He has to leave. He can feel people’s eyes on him and it makes him shudder, he just wants to be out of sight and in Draco’s arms. Urgently. Now. Harry presses his lips together and picks at a hangnail on his left hand, his whole body broken out in a cold sweat. 

He doesn’t look up, only sees pairs of hands all around him moving and holding silverware. His appetite’s fled, buried itself in the wet, melting snow outside.

Someone nudges his side, and then Fred wordlessly passes him a buttered roll. His stomach flips dangerously at the greasy sheen. But Hermione’s staring at his hands, so he anxiously tears off a piece of it and chews for a long time, his thoughts skittering about. When he looks up, he sees Draco staring right at him. He can see his expression from this distance still, but it's unreadable. 

Draco looks to the Great Hall entrance, and then to him pointedly. 

“I have to go to the loo,” He blurts out suddenly, interrupting George and Jordan’s low conversation, as well as Ron, Seamus, and Neville’s. He stands up without further ado, brushing aside the protesting noise Hermione makes, and heads for the exit. 


	14. Chapter 14

When he sweeps around the corner, a pair of pale hands grab him. Draco pulls him in for a kiss, but before Harry can immerse himself in it the blonde pulls back, making solid eye contact, “I have to tell you something, love.”

Harry stares at his face nervously, but his expression is still unreadable.

“What?” Harry whispers fearfully, shrinking away. Away from whatever is making Draco so serious. 

 _It'll be okay_ , he wants to tell himself. Because, just a few weeks ago or so he wouldn't have been able to imagine being in the spot where he is now, with Ron and Hermione speaking to him again. Just a few weeks ago none of this around him was even possible to hope for. So. He knows it does get better but, right now, with Draco's solemn slate eyes seeing straight through his soul, it feels like the calm before a storm. 

“My dad wrote me,” Draco licks his lips anxiously, “He _knows_. Word’s gotten around, about the things I’ve been doing,” His voice cracks, high and tense all of a sudden, and Harry can hear all the lingering panic that's been omitted, “About us. And. He wants to send me to Durmstrang.”

Harry’s world crashes down. He can feel his shelter and safety and comfort tear away in one swift movement, leaving him exposed and alone, “No,” He denies, but his nose is already stinging with the promise of tears, “No, Draco, please. Stand up to him, or something.”

“I said I would go,” The words fall from his pretty pink lips remorsefully, “I don’t have much of a choice, Harry. He would, he’d _kill_ me if I resisted.” His light gray eyes are wet.

The timing is too coincidental, and he knows this. They both do, “Draco…”

“I’m sorry, love,” The term of endearment comes out one last time, almost as a whisper, and he kisses both of Harry’s eyelids quickly before going back to the Great Hall, leaving Harry alone and dazed.

Words that could've and would've been said are aborted, left to rot. 

The rest of the day, he’s out of it. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t even try to put up a façade.

(Harry just can't even _comprehend_ , is the thing. He doesn't know how to deal with this new development, never even foresaw something like this coming up to bite him)

They have Potions with the Slytherins, and the whole time Draco turns to look at him from across the room, eyes pleading, but for _what_ , Harry doesn’t know. He’s already taken everything. Maybe it's not fair for Harry to be so bitter and upset about this new development when Draco's done nothing but be supportive, but he can't bring himself to care. 

Hermione seems to catch on quickly, connecting the dots as Draco silently pines for Harry’s attention and Harry keeps his eyes firmly on their lab. She doesn’t do much, just scoots closer to Harry. He’s grateful that she doesn’t say anything, because if she were to bring it up right there in class he would probably break down despite being so exposed to the rest of his classmates. 

He can't fathom it. Can't imagine his  _enemyrivalfriendmentorlover_ evaporating into thin air, disappearing as though he never even existed at Hogwarts. As though he never walked through the halls, as though he never loved or fell apart here. As though he never bled his feelings out on the bathroom tiles, as though he never sought this place in order to escape the problems at home. As though this hadn't been his sanctuary, as though this place hadn't been where he'd spent his teen years growing up.  _  
_

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Harry was supposed to save him. He was supposed to help, supposed to mend him and bring him back to reality. They were supposed to be  _there_ for each other. Draco promised, and Harry had formed his own hopes outside of that promise. 

(It feels a little bit like falling, with no footholds to stop the descent into something unknown. Maybe he'll hit the ground and his brains will splatter. Or maybe he'll continue tumbling through the stinging air until bits and pieces of him wear away. Draco was his crutch, his foothold, his everything-good. What is there left?)

At dinner, he sits with the Gryffindors, because while it's painful, sitting with the Slytherins would be worse tonight. He's numb, even his nerve endings, like they've been frayed or damaged along the way. He can't feel the sandwich that he's eating through his fingertips. Can't taste it on his tongue. And he definitely can't look at Draco, who's like a pale, thin elephant in the room, because then he'll probably lose it. He'll probably have to grab his blade, and he can't because he's been trying so hard not to. He learned once in Muggle school that everything has a gravitational pull, changing with mass and distance. Right now it feels like his blade tucked in his bookbag has a scientific gravitational pull much stronger than anything else. 

Hermione peppers him with questions that he effectively tunes out. Tries to invite him in the conversation, keeps mentioning him at random times and then eyeing him, and it's driving Harry mad. With each desperate attempt to snatch his attention, she's sucking in everyone else's attention as well. So much so that when he looks up he catches Ginny, Seamus, Ron, and Hermione watching him cautiously. 

He feels like an experiment of some sort, like he's being put under some kind of psychological torture until he collapses and they're timing the seconds. And then, 

"-Right, Harry?" He hears Hermione say, horribly casual. Her acting is something of an abomination. 

Harry grits his teeth, and he's about to say something (about to _stab_ her with his knife, actually), but _Dean_  comes to his rescue, of all things. 

"I have to ask Harry about something for Defense Against the Dark Arts, actually," The Gryffindor says calmly, and Hermione deflates, looking guilty. Good. 

Harry follows Dean to the exit of the Great Hall, ignoring Draco _and_ Hermione, now (when did his life become laced with so much drama?). 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Once safely outside of the Great Hall, Dean turns to look at him. Harry's shoulders slump in gratitude. 

"Thanks," He lets himself just breathe for a moment, tries to not be too angry at Hermione. He knows logically that she was just trying to include him, but it still takes a minute to gather his thoughts and detach himself from the frustration. 

"No problem," Dean shrugs. They've never been alone together before, even before all of it went to shit at the start of the term. Dean was always just kind of there, an extension of Seamus. Seamus was ( _is_ ) loud and vivacious, likes to have the attention on himself. Dean is someone who seems like they can give that attention and feel comfortable not getting it in return. Harry's never had anything against him, in all honesty, "It just seemed like you needed to get away for a bit."  _  
_

"A little," Harry admits, thumb pressing harshly into his concealed wrists.  _Understatement._ He feels overwhelmed almost all of the time, being out of his comfort zone and now with Draco. He doesn't even want to  _think_ about Draco leaving because. It brings out so many questions that he tries so hard to suppress. Was he a factor in this? Was Draco lying about his father forcing him to go? Why would he want to leave? 

Because he knows, in the way that Draco's voice was oh-so steady and firm, in the way that his eyes never faltered or grew wet, that Draco didn't have any qualms about going to Durmstrang. It's a fresh start for both of them, Harry supposes, but he doesn't want it. He doesn't want Draco to go, he can't wrap his head around his angel walking through the halls of another school where Harry can't keep an eye on him. 

"Are you going back in, or...?" Dean says, and Harry realizes it's been silent for a while now. Oops. Dean's smiling though, so he supposes that maybe it's not too awkward. 

"I was actually going to go to the library," Harry says, "Just want to work on that bloody Potions essay." 

"I  _know_ ," Dean sighs, rolling his eyes slightly. It's more than Harry's seen him express in their years at Hogwarts together, "Snape assigns so much homework, honestly. It's ridiculous." 

They're starting to walk towards the library together without even realizing it, and Harry snorts, nodding, "It's true. I think he hates me."

"He  _definitely_ hates you!" Dean chuckles, "You'd think that you murdered his grandmother, or something? I mean, I don't think Snape likes  _anyone_ , but if he was going to kill someone and bury their body I would definitely guess it to be you." 

Harry mimics slicing his own throat and Dean laughs and  _oh_. There's dimples. He did not know he had the power to bring out those dimples that he's always seen from a distance. 

And as it turns out, Dean Thomas is an enormous gossip. Ron's always been like that a bit, always wanting to get the dirt on everyone in the castle and then being shut down by Hermione. But the great thing about Dean is that he talks about the good and bad of people, never just focusing on the negatives. He talks about how so-and-so's hair looks very pretty that day, and how someone else in Hufflepuff experienced a family death. He's interesting, and then he brings up things that Harry's never even noticed about their classmates. 

"- and it just drives me crazy," Dean says, as they bend over the assigned Potions homework. The room has a warm glow, and they're both sat at a table together, and if Harry wants he could pretend this something more than what it really is. But maybe that's just his lonely heart speaking, "It drives me up the wall how much she jiggles her leg." 

"Who, Parvati?" Harry laughs, because in all honestly he's never really noticed much about Parvati's habits. Or girls, in general, besides Hermione and Ginny. That in of itself probably should've alerted him about his homosexuality, but he didn't really put two and two together until this year. 

"Yeah!" Dean widens his eyes, like Harry's being thick, "She does it all the time. She told me it's a Muggle trick, to boost metabolism, but she's skinny as a stick! Her metabolism's fine as it is." 

"I never noticed," Harry admits. 

"You've never  _noticed_?" Dean gapes dramatically, "How could you not have noticed? She does it in every class!" 

" _Because_ , Dean," Harry says (how did he get so comfortable with him so fast? It's unnerving. Even with Draco and the others, he didn't trust so easily), "I don't spend my classes watching what other people are doing." 

"But it's  _interesting_."

"It's  _creepy_ ," Harry corrects, and Dean laughs again. 

Harry and Dean finish up homework and sure, it's a little awkward to have Harry go to a different common room. But Dean just makes a joke about getting slime on him from the dungeons and Harry laughs and that's  _it_. There's no heavy weight in the words, no lingering silences, and he goes to the common room with a smile on his face. He wants Snape to assign a thousand more trivial essays, just so that he can do this again. Because Dean's quirky, and funny, and insightful, and Harry fully intends on making him giggle more than just once. 

He falls asleep in a terrible tug-of-war of contentedness and nauseating guilt. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it seems like harry got over draco really fast, but thats not quiite the case. hes still in shock, and he hasnt really thought at all about it. incoming storm


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> too many emotions at once, so i decided to ignore them and write. short little chapter before i update for real tomorrow!

It’s that very Saturday that Draco gets pulled from term early. His hot-blooded father is witnessed storming into Dumbledore’s office, heard shouting about how Draco’s mixed in with the Wrong Crowd.

Meanwhile, Harry and Draco are packing in the Slytherin dormitory. It's tense, and awkward. Draco’s packing his things to leave (leave the school, leave _Hogwarts_. Harry can’t even wrap his mind around it. It’s so bewildering, like a large chunk of his life is just drowning right in front of him. The realization and grief will come later, he’s sure, but right now his mind has seemingly short-circuited).

Harry’s packing to go back to the Gryffindor common room. He doesn’t want to, he isn’t ready to be surrounded by old memories, but at the same time his heart will probably splinter into a thousand fragments if he has to lie in this silky green bed alone tonight. If he doesn’t wake up in a pair of warm, wiry arms.

Frankly, he’s amazed that their sleeping arrangements lasted so long without interference. He doesn’t know if it was luck, or if it passed under the teacher’s noses without acknowledgement. Even though he’s a detached sort of sad to be packing his things and leaving what's started to feel like home, he’s also grateful that he was able to be with Draco for so long in the first place. Grateful for the nights when he could be held close and fixated on. 

Theo, Vincent, Greg, and Blaise all sit on the other beds, watching solemnly. Theo doesn’t even give them shit when Harry has a moment of weakness and throws his arms around Draco’s neck. The two of them stand there, interlocked, for several minutes before letting go and finishing packing. He tries to memorize Draco's pulse. 

Harry’s already decided that he can’t, _won’t_ , cry today, so his eyes are dry as Draco snaps his final bag shut and examines his bare living space. Harry clings to his own trunk, desperation still lingering in his eyes and heart. It doesn't feel real. Nothing does. 

“I guess that’s it,” Draco says quietly, words echoing in the stone room. 

“We’ll walk you,” Vincent offers. His voice is slower today, and Harry knows he probably drank earlier to make it all less painful. Draco’s been the leader of their group since their first year, and it’s probably ten times as unbearable for them. To watch him just walk away from it all, all that they've built up and experienced. 

Blaise, Theo, Vincent and Greg haul out Draco’s excessive belongings purposefully, leaving just the two of them.

“You’ll write me?” Harry questions unsurely, lip wobbling.

Draco leans in and kisses him one final time. It’s sweet, and loving, and the blonde holds his face gently as though he were made of a rarity.

“Of course,” Draco breathes, pulling away too soon, eyes too dull, “Anything for you.”

 

They all bid adieu to him one final time. Draco is the bittersweet picture of goodbyes, his jaunty travelling cap on his flat hair, hands gripping his things tightly, eyes swimming with unease and anticipation of something either painful or delightful coming his way. A new chapter, a fresh start, a chance to forget and move on. A blessing or a curse. 

Harry doesn’t kiss him again. He can’t. There’s unwanted someones in the halls that could always see, and he knows that if he does, it will make everything too final. Too real. He’ll be forced to accept that Draco really, truly is going.

He watches as his slender guardian angel takes his endless acceptance and affection with him through the headmaster’s door, and feels himself die inside.

The others walk him to the Gryffindor dormitory, straight to the outside of the Fat Lady’s portrait. She purses her lips, but seems to notice the red-tinged eyes and admits them. 

Only Blaise goes in with him, because out of the four of them he is the most tolerated in this house. Most of the Gryffindors are outside, trying to enjoy the warm weather that has graced them, but. A few still linger on the worn sofas and armchairs, and they stare at them as they pass.

When they find the right dormitory, Harry pushes in to find Ron and Neville sitting on their beds, talking about something trivial and light. The conversation dissipates as Blaise and Harry enter, both of the Gryffindors watching as Harry sets his things down next to his abandoned bed. There’s a layer of dust on it and it’s obvious no one in the dormitory has sat down on it or used it in any way.

It takes mere minutes to get settled in again, and it’s the most unwelcome change Harry’s ever experienced. He hugs Blaise before he leaves, presses close to the bony body and whispers in his ear, “Thank you for everything.” He tries to pour every ounce of gratitude into those words. This can't be goodbye. It can't actually. 

“It’s been a pleasure,” The dark-skinned boy says softly, “Take care, Harry. You know where to find me.”

 _In the toilets_. It’s just another reminder of why he has to do this, why he has to separate himself from the destructive things he’s been exposed to. But it’s still excruciating, like ripping off a layer of his skin.

Suddenly, Blaise is gone and Harry’s left alone with two people he’d rather not see at the moment. He would give _anything_ in the world to go back to last night when they took out Firewhiskey and Butterbeer and toasted to new adventures. When they all fell asleep dazed and happy except for Harry, and Draco, who pressed Harry into the sheets and pleasured him one last time, making stars explode behind his eyelids. Only it’s just a memory now, one to hold close and dear, but a memory nonetheless. Transparent and easily destroyed. 

Before Ron or Neville can open their mouths, Harry goes to his bed and shuts all of the curtains surrounding him. He’s enveloped in darkness, where he can’t see anything or be seen, and he falls asleep despite just waking up a little while ago. He wants to be alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to base this off when my grandmother died. For the first few days, I didn't really think about it, and tried to move on, but then i looked at pictures of her and everything just hit me all at once. I'm not comparing Draco's transferring to a familial death, but you know what I mean.


	17. Chapter 17

The next few days are a haze. 

It happens somewhere in Harry's mind as he sleeps, in the dead of night. He closes his eyes numb, but sane, and wakes up the next morning in a hurricane. 

 _Draco is gone_. 

Draco is gone, and he is not somewhere in the belly of the castle. He's hundreds and hundreds of miles away, tethered to a man who may as well be toxic and hurtling into a new world beyond Harry's experiences. Harry had been living in the comforting knowledge that his blonde was always nearby, he could never be too far away or off premises, and so it was always with ease and stability that Harry felt when he thought of Draco, for he knew that his lover was somewhere reachable. On the days when he sought the Slytherin out, it never took more than a few minutes, because he understood the basics of Draco's patterned whereabouts. He embodied the dungeons in the evenings, the library in the afternoons, the towers of the castle in the dead of night when he grasped at the opportunity to separate himself from the student body. 

Now its as though Draco's ghost lingers in these old haunts, and it burns Harry to think about it. Every time his mind slips, goes back to that familiar routine of thinking about Draco and where he might be, a glowing hot rod brands his mind with the reminder that Draco is  _gone_. Like a disappearing act come to life. Despite walking these very halls and learning in these very classrooms for years, Draco's left it all behind without so much as a word to anyone outside of their group. The rest of the school seems to catch on glacially slow. Even the Durmstrang students that are inhabiting this place for the Triwizard Tournament seem to not have heard any news about their new student. They learn around the same time as everyone else. 

It's not a big event. In fact, everyone seems indifferent. The world is moving on without Draco, except for Harry it seems. He's still snagged hopelessly on this hook of a boy, floundering for air. 

He closes in on himself, and time sort of reverses a little bit. Once again, he misses classes, misses meals, but this time he just hides in the dormitory, curtains resolutely drawn. It's like he's a beast folding up for hibernation, but Harry never wants to wake up. He's stuck in this terrible limbo of loneliness and surrealness and everything's still happening, people are still falling in love and dying and getting jobs and learning new spells and he's buried under his covers, unable to face reality. 

Harry does venture out, just once. To write a letter to Draco, in the middle of the night by the fire in the common room. It's long, with inconsistent, messy handwriting and mushy thoughts that make no sense tied up together. He doesn't remember the actual contents of the letter, just that he poured his heart out in a strangely represented way. Draco hasn't responded, and to be honest Harry doesn't expect him to. The goodbye outside of the headmaster's office seemed too final, Draco's stare too piercing and firm. It just makes Harry feel more abandoned, but he's the one who left Draco in the first place, probably the one who drove him to transfer schools, and that makes it even more confusing and heartbreaking. 

Draco was his first, his first love, his first time, his first kiss, his first almost everything. Looking back on it, Harry threw himself into the relationship, probably giving Draco no chance to opt out, tagging along like a lost puppy. Was that all that he was? A child to humor and look after, because he would go and kill himself if he went unsupervised? Did Draco feel obliged to protect him the way he did? Did Harry misread the whole thing? He can't go and ask, because Draco's  _gone_. 

Many, many times, he contemplates ending it all. Killing himself, or wrecking his skin again, drinking himself into oblivion, transcending into another reality with the help of those pills. Days pass by and he thinks about everyone outside, probably labeling him as a failure. He thinks about a boy hundreds of miles away who's seemingly forgot his name. He gets a bit wrapped up in the dangerous thoughts, crumbling more and more as the heavy crushing minutes wear him down continually.

It would be so easy to go. To just press the blade a little bit harder into his skin, map out his veins with deadly precision. One quick movement, and then he would bleed out, head going fuzzy until all the pretty stained-glass colors in the sunsetalmostevening washed out his vision. 

He goes to do it. One day at dinner. It can't have been more than a week since Draco left with his travelling cap and unhealthy amount of emotional and physical baggage. But it feels like forever where Harry's been, the same thoughts looping around his mind in torturous cycles, his emotions as stable or reliable as tornadoes. What is there waiting for him, outside? People who pretend to like his presence, a family waiting back in the Muggle world who loathes every inch of his raw skin. There are people out there who would celebrate his death, literally. A burden taken off of one's hands is no curse. He'll be with his mum and his dad, he'll be able to be reunited with Draco again someday. He'll be detached from all of this pain and suffering going on only in his head, a battlefield solely meant for one. 

Harry takes a shower, because he wants to feel clean. He longs to wash away everything, but scrubbing at his skin does him no justice other than a painful tingling. He grabs one of his sharpest blades, slicing it against stone for a couple swipes on the way there to make it even sharper. The sun is setting and the hallways are golden and it feels like he's walking in a passage towards another world. He's going to see the people he's needed this entire time, his parents who will love-and-support him unconditionally. Safe from harm, and safe from a villain who's supposedly coming back to murder him on sight, with an army of followers there to finish the job if it goes astray. He'd rather finish everything on his own terms. 

Suddenly, he's stopped.

By Dean. 

"I've been looking for you," the Gryffindor says, breathlessly, "Wanted to bring this." He holds out a roll in his palm, already buttered, and what is it with rolls and everyone coaxing them into him?

Harry doesn't say anything. Just watches as the light in the corridor fades ever so slightly, dimming his fantasy of dying in a colorfully lit room.

"What're you doing?" Dean asks next. In slow motion, he looks down and sees the blade glinting in between Harry's fingers. He makes the connection, faster than Harry could've expected of anyone, taking it from Harry and throwing it. (There's a pleasant  _clink_ that signals the blade landing somewhere on the stone) In the next moment, Harry's face is in Dean's chest as Dean's arms snake around him and pull him there. He feels numb. All over.  _  
_

"No, no, no," The dark-skinned boy is saying, and he smells nice, like mint, "No, Harry, why?" He sounds emotional, more than Harry expected. 

Harry's crying, "Don't." 

"Harry," Dean says gently, "Let's go back to the dorm. No one's there yet. Let's go, c'mon." 

They go back to the dormitory, and true to his word no one's there yet, dinner still happening in the Great Hall, occupants unaware of anything unusual going on. Dean takes his hand, and it's slightly clammy but Harry needs an anchor. They go back up to their dorm, to the bed that Harry just vacated. Dean sits down, and it's only then that Harry realizes he's crying, too. 

"C'mere," Dean says, pulling Harry next to him, and throwing his own blanket from his bed onto him. His hair is still wet from the shower, but he's too tired to care. Everything is so tiring. 

"Sleep," Is the last thing he hears, as well as shaky breathing, before he falls asleep. 

 


	18. Chapter 18

“Harry, _Harry_ ,” He hears Hermione’s voice snap, just outside of his bed. The others had tried to convince him to come down to dinner a few minutes ago, eventually giving up and muttering their goodbyes as they went. Harry's been in bed all day, determinedly ignoring Dean because of what happened last night. The air was thick with tension this morning, but he has a feeling Dean wouldn't tell the others at dinner about what had happened, and that ended up making him less distressed. 

Apparently, though, Hermione won’t have any of it. Suddenly, Harry’s fixings are thrown back, and his eyes are forced to adjust to the lights of their dormitory. He turns over (determined, so determined to block out everything). 

“Harry, you need to eat dinner,” Hermione says, not taking the hint, “You’re so thin.”

There are a million and one reasons why he cannot and will not go to dinner tonight.

“I’m not going to dinner,” He states firmly, burying his face in his arm. There's no room for negotiations. Not right now. 

Hermione’s voice suddenly changes tone.

“Harry, I’m so sorry. I know, or at least I try to understand, what he must’ve meant to you." The pale blonde elephant in the room sits, demanding to be acknowledged. 

 _Must’ve_. Past tense, as though Draco’s dead and not being controlled by his harsh father. As though Draco’s existence isn’t being ignored and isolated at this very moment, eroded of the sweet words and syrupy slow mornings he must be used to. 

“Don’t make me eat, Hermione. I can’t go down there,” His strength is crumbling. He can’t do this, can’t think of Blaise, Theo, Vincent, and Greg sitting in the Great Hall without the familiar presence of the blonde, can’t think of looking across the room and not seeing his lean figure.

Tears start sliding down his face before he can stop them, mental walls cracking. 

“Harry,” Hermione says gently, “I’ll be back.”

 

She returns minutes later with food, a whole plateful of it. It’s more than enough for two. She sets the platter on Ron’s bed, sitting in Harry’s line of sight. He hasn’t moved, and he hasn’t stopped crying, either. Harry looks up briefly to acknowledge her, but then his eyes immediately flicker back down to that point in space he’s been focusing on. 

“Talk to me,” Hermione coaxes, sounding desperate, “Just _talk_ , Harry. You’ve barely talked ever since you started sitting with us again. You won’t talk. To any of us." 

Harry lets out a sob, shaking his head. He’s achingly grateful that it’s just the two of them at last, that no one else is around to watch. He's used to being strong, used to caging his feelings in favor of focusing on everything else occurring. He's reminded of last year, when he thought that Sirius killed his parents. It felt like his heart had been torn apart, he'd been so paranoid, because if his parents trusted Sirius how could he trust Ron and Hermione? It had felt like the whole world was against him. And even then, he only let a few tears through, before shaking it off. 

“I won’t judge, Harry,” Hermione whispers, her words being swallowed by the tranquil quiet, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. But I will listen, because I care. I want to know, I want to help you. So you don't feel like this anymore.”

A long, deep silence. His mind runs rampant with conflict.

“He was my angel,” Harry breathes, hating himself to the last fingernail for it. He doesn’t want to say anything but at the same time, he knows that Hermione truly won’t judge or think differently of him, and he has to talk, has to tell. Sure enough, his eyes roll up to her, and she’s mirroring his position, offering him a roll regardless of what he's said. He takes it, slipping back into the pattern of letting her care for him. It feels safe, familiar. 

“Draco was. He was my angel. That’s what I thought of him as, I suppose. He saved me. From being alone. I met him on the Astronomy Tower one evening. And after that, we kept meeting each other at night,” He has to tell it all, all of a sudden. Validate that what he and Draco had was real. Let someone else in the world know that these things happened, that they weren’t a figment of his imagination. The words spill out, “He helped me. Told me how to feel good, how to cope. He told me that he was the same way. He wanted to lose himself. So he taught me things, and he told the others about me, and they accepted me as well.”

Harry tells her almost everything, holding onto his roll with jittery fingers. He tears chunks of it off nervously as he speaks, staring determinedly at the carpeted ground at the hard parts. Relays all that’s been chased away to the recesses of his mind.

Hermione, true to her word, just listens. She eats, and stops eating at some of the more gritty parts. When he gets around to telling her (or more majorly hinting) about his self-harm, with a dry throat, her eyes tear up. She manages to keep her emotions in check, only nodding at him to continue. He's grateful. 

When it’s over, when he finally falls silent and the bread roll in his palm is now nothing more than a scattering of crumbs. In reality, nothing’s physically changed. But he still feels somewhat lighter, if that’s even possible.

She smiles sadly, but it’s like the air’s been cleared. She _knows_ now, and it’s weird to think about. Inevitably, Harry will receive a lecture later, whether on safe sex or drug use or whatever the fuck, but he can’t be bothered about it at the moment. Not when Hermione’s here, and still staring at him as though he isn’t a complete lost cause. Not when everything feels oddly secure still. 

“I didn’t know you were into blokes. Before all this happened,” She says lightly, obviously trying to convey acceptance. He appreciates it. 

“I didn’t know either,” He murmurs. And he _didn’t_ know, is the thing. For the longest time, he felt no attraction for anything, being distracted by other things like surviving attacks from the noseless. Thought that maybe sex and all that wasn’t for him. He’s extremely grateful that this is not the case, because he loves sex.

“You know, Dean came out earlier this year as well,” Hermione watches him carefully, “I think you had something to do with it. Because you were so open about it, you know.”

That’s good. He likes Dean. Dean's warm and lovely and makes him comfortable. Harry’s glad that he’s made some kind of positive impact in coming out. Hopes that Dean isn’t getting shit for something that he can’t control.

“That’s nice,” He says, and Hermione sends him a look.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for graphic self harm

Apparently, he _is_ too thin, bordering on the edge of malnutrition. Or so McGonagall says, when she calls him up to her desk after class.

Maybe it’s because he seems more approachable now, or maybe it’s because he looks worse than ever. Whatever the reason, as they pack up their things to leave Transfiguration, McGonagall summons him to the front of the room. Hermione and Ron linger near the exit unsurely as everyone else drains out of the classroom door. Very quickly, it's just the four of them. 

“Professor?” He looks at the thin face of his teacher properly for what may very well be the first time all year. She has more grey hairs than he remembers. Again, he is reminded that everyone ages, even those that seem immortal. Time stops for nobody, and the world will always proceed even if it seems frozen to some. 

“Mr. Potter, I have a concern regarding your health,” McGonagall says crisply. Her spine is uniformly straight as always, “You’re too thin, almost malnourished. I don’t want to risk you losing consciousness during class, and I don't want your education or wellbeing to be compromised anymore. If you will kindly go see Madame Pomfrey, she is expecting you.”

He nods unenthusiastically, “Okay, Professor.” (And so it seems he's positioned in the notice of others once again. Harry much prefers being invisible and deteriorating to being under the pressure of the whole school, but it was nice while it lasted)

Professor McGonagall’s lips suddenly quirk up, “It’s good to see that you’re with us, Mr. Potter.”

Harry doesn’t try to decipher the implications behind _that_ one. He just nods again before going back to Ron and Hermione. They depart to the next class when Harry tells them what McGonagall said.

Meanwhile, he branches off into the hospital wing. As promised, Madame Pomfrey greets him with a thin expression, firing off spells to weigh and measure him almost at once. 

He’s underweight. He doesn’t want to know exact numbers, but she says as much. It's not unexpected, he's been underweight his whole life under the treatment of the Dursley's, but it's grown to extreme standards now. Before, he just looked skinny. And now he looks gaunt. 

Madame Pomfrey gives him a choice. Either staying overnight in the hospital so she can do spells and feed him potions that will help him gain weight, or taking a few now while he’s here and eating more at meals from now on. He chooses the latter, because really, honestly, this matter isn't of huge importance. Staying in the hospital overnight would validate it as one. So she gives him some supplements and potions to take, and sends him on his way. 

Everyone’s in classes, and the fourth year Gryffindors are supposedly at Hagrid’s right now. Hagrid’s classes can be fun, uplifting even, but Harry’s not in the mood to herd wild animals and avoid sharp talons. His mind’s working a bit too slow for that, right now. It’s a Draco sort of day. If this were a few months ago, Harry would’ve already sought him out, would’ve quieted his haywire mind with whatever Draco had in mind for them and let his thoughts turn syrupy and slow. Thinking itself is an enormous burden, and Harry hates being trapped inside of his own thoughts until the day he dies.

Unfortunately, now he's left to his own devices, free from the lingering eyes of everyone who claims to be watching out for him (Really, they're just protecting him from himself). There's things he definitely  _could_ do, now that there's no one to stop or distract him. He's nowhere near cured of his old habits, he still cuts when it all becomes a bit too much and smokes one every once in a while if he feels like sneaking out at night. Honestly, that's probably the reason why he's been taking Draco's disappearance so well. Doing those things makes Harry think of him, makes him wonder if somewhere his angel's repeating his actions. 

It makes him feel like they're connected. It's desperate and twisted, but true. He seeks comfort from it. 

Dean and Hermione know about it to a degree, and he knows that they would stop him instantly if they knew he was doing it right now. He can't help it, it's habit by now, and if it makes him happy, how could it possibly be a bad thing? (Besides the sickeningly obvious) 

He spends time on it, because he's got half of Care of Magical Creatures left until lunch. So he presses deep into his skin, lets the blood trickle down his thighs for a little bit and lets a few tears fall, allows himself to think of Draco unashamedly. He thumbs over the blade that's been recently sharpened, his nerves tingling with the knowledge of what's coming next. He varies with pressure for all the different slices. Some are fast and sting more than bite, he presses down and jerks his wrist in a practiced movement. The red takes a little bit to appear, but the cuts are long, thin and satisfying.

Others are more like nicks, he digs the corner of the blade into his skin and presses down  _hard_ , dragging it across and relishing the pain. He cuts slowly, with calculation and precision, gritting his teeth at the sharp ache that settles in his nerves. These are shorter and thicker, the blood settling in the spaces between skin. 

The most dangerous are when his emotions cloud his judgement. When swirling, ugly thoughts get into his head, about dying and about loving and about things he can't have but wants so desperately. When he's crying and everything's too much. He slices, hard and fast, straining for release, mauling his thighs with short, brutal tally marks that bleed profusely as he shakes and hiccups with tears. After, the blood pools underneath the cuts, spreads out under his skin, making the lines seem thicker.

He uses a cleaning spell on the floor, but prefers to wipe away the blood on his thighs physically with toilet paper. It's more satisfying, to see the red stain the white. Even when there's a lot of red to clean up.

Harry doesn't know how he could ever stray away from this. Even now, when things are supposedly getting better, this is really one of the best things to fix his horrible moods. Alcohol and drugs are simpler solutions, more accepted in society, but he's already quit those successfully and relapsing would feel more like failure than a thousand cuts to his body. 

He waits until his breathing is steady and calm, and then heads out of the bathroom as people are exiting their classrooms. 


	20. Chapter 20

Almost immediately, Ron and Hermione become the embodiment of Madame Pomfrey. At lunch, even when Harry's eaten a little more than he usually does, Hermione frowns at him and puts another sandwich on his plate. Ron side-eyes him to make sure he eats it, still holding conversations but obviously checking on him. It's tense. Harry feels close to bursting, but they're unimpressed. Maybe if they would just leave him _alone_ , he could eat in peace, without expectant eyes trained on him. It makes him wonder what they would do if they found out about his cutting.

With that horrible thought, he immediately resolves to not tell them.

"You know what Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey said," Hermione says sternly when he tries to be subtle about shoving his plate away (His stomach feels painfully swollen). From down the table a ways, George coughs into his fist. She's managing to make everything extraordinarily awkward, even for lunchtime conversation. The Gryffindors have managed to approach some horribly uncomfortable conversations, from Lavender's hopeless pining to Angelina's sexual escapades, even Neville's strange foot rash that never really went away. Each time, they managed to keep the mood light. Somehow, though, this is different. 

Ginny comes to his defense, "Give it a _rest_ , Hermione. I think you've just about stuffed him full." Ron was pretty vocal for Hermione's cause at the beginning of lunch, but after a few minutes he's gone silent, pressing his fists into his eyes at the headache that must be growing. Harry has one, himself. He feels guilty, knowing that others exposed to Hermione's shrill nagging may be suffering in a similar fashion. 

"He's too thin!" Hermione hisses. 

"Harry!" Dean pipes up, from a few seats down. His eyes are wide, terrified, like he forgot something, and for a second Harry feels a stab of annoyance and panic. What now? What else could he possibly have done? 

"Remember? You told me you'd help me with that Defense homework," Dean says urgently, "I _really_ need help on it. Could we go work on it now in the library?" 

Harry doesn't remember a single conversation about helping Dean with his homework. He can barely hold back a laugh. Saints are real, and there's one staring at him right now with mirth in his eyes.

"Merlin, I forgot about that," He says, widening his eyes just as dramatically. Dean tries to suppress a smile, "Sorry. Let's go."

Hermione looks stormy. "It's  _homework_ , Hermione," Harry presses, straining to sound like he actually gives a damn about bloody DADA coursework, "You don't want Dean to fail, do you? That would be a little selfish." The aforementioned boy's by his side, helpfully tugging his arm. 

"Of  _course_ not, but Harry - !" 

Dean pulls his arm towards the exit, and soon they're out of hearing range. Dean bursts into little sniggers. When they look back, Hermione's sullenly gone back to eating her food and listening to the conversation around her. Ron and the others look relieved, throwing little glances at her to make sure she stays silent. 

"You're terrible," Harry informs him, as they turn out of the Great Hall and go up the stairs, "Hermione's probably going to have an anxiety attack." 

"I don't care," Dean says flippantly, "She was making you uncomfortable. I mean, it was obvious to anyone. Force-feeding someone is not the way to make them want to eat. Because, Harry, you really do need to if you don't want to get the professors involved."  

"I guess," Harry mutters. 

Suddenly, a thought of Dumbledore going into his dormitory and talking to him about his weight makes his heart seize up in fear. Couldn't everyone just give him some room about this? 

"Do you not think that you're thin enough or something?" Dean asks, suddenly concerned, "Because you're small. Sometimes I feel like you'll just disappear." 

They enter the library and go into one of the far back corners, dropping their book bags. Harry revels in the tranquility that blankets this place. It's become his escape destination over the course of this past year. The books surrounding them with quiet knowledge gives him a comfort he can't explain, and the required silence is a blessing in disguise. No one can come here and yell at him about getting better, about trying to slap on the limbs of himself that he's lost. You can't just sew a leg back on and expect it to function again, can't expect the veins to magically start pumping blood and the nerves to spark to life once more. 

"I just don't like eating," He admits, "It's not a body image thing."  _I don't think_?  _  
_

"Okay," Dean says in relief, making no move to get out the things from his book bag, "Because I think you're beautiful." 

The heavy weight in Harry's stomach is replaced with something lighter and much more distracting. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of an apology chapter, because the last one was so damn short. I'll make them all much longer from now on, I promise.

The following days are no easier in the fact that Hermione and Ron still badger him persistently. It seems like everyone's been waiting for a cue, and now that someone's finally told him he's underweight (like he didn't know already. Like he doesn't feel it when he stands too fast and sees spots in his visions. Like he doesn't feel his bones creak and rub against each other when he walks too fast. He is fully aware of his skeletal composition, thank you very much) the ones closest to him have viewed that as the go-ahead to shove food down his throat. Except Dean, who Harry's almost positive that he lied to. 

He doesn't have body image issues, is the thing. Compared to Blaise, at least. Blaise is convinced that he's overweight, that his thigh gap is overlapped by layer upon layer of wobbly fat. He looks at himself in the mirror and his automatic reaction is to pinch his cheeks as hard as he can, glaring at himself in disgust. There's nothing there, only skin stretched tightly over cheekbones, but Blaise's eyes have been trained to spot every inch of softness on his body. He's hellbent on starving himself until he's perfect, fitting the image of his family bloodline and wealth. It's a mixture of desperation and awful longing that has acid travelling the wrong way up his throat and has his stomach complaining for days without relief. 

Harry is a different matter, and he didn't even stop to consider that maybe his not-eating was a Body Image Thing as much as it's a Coping Thing. It certainly started out as a Coping Thing, serving the same purpose as drinking himself into stupors and torturing his skin. But now Harry's realized that this thing, whatever it is, has evolved from this beginning phase. Because, well. 

It's not the same as Blaise. Definitely not in the same realm. He has no family standards to live up to, no body dysmorphia that somehow manipulates his thighs and tummy into being bigger than they actually are when he looks in a mirror. But. He likes seeing his collarbones and cheekbones, likes to rub the pad of his thumb over his hipbone at night when he can't sleep. He likes feeling lighter, likes it best when his stomach's empty. It makes him  _feel good_ , just as Draco said far too long ago. He feels as though if he loses more weight eventually he'll be able to disappear altogether, vanish from everyone's view (And wouldn't that be the most perfect thing?). 

He can function without eating anything for the whole day, he can go to bed hungry and not wake up absolutely murderous in the morning. It makes him feel strong, and it makes him feel good, seeing his bones. Is that so bad? 

Apparently it is, because on the third day that Harry refuses to bend to Hermione's will, on the third day of everyone watching the ongoing battle, Dean's eyebrows finally start to furrow. The amusement, if there was even any in the first place, is lost. Hermione's starting to plead, and soon Harry knows she'll be making threats to tell a professor or Madame Pomfrey. Harry's just so tired of it, so tired of staring at his plate and feeling his insides squirm. It wouldn't be that big of a deal to eat, except now it's snowballed into one, and the idea of eating gives him so much anxiety and dread it makes him sick to him stomach. Why is everyone looking at him with that expression? And why can no one take the hint and just  _leave him the fuck alone_? 

He looks over a few tables over, takes note of Blaise's customary absence. He wants to be with him more than anything right now, because Blaise just gets it. Even if the Slytherin's desperation scares him a little bit sometimes. 

"Harry," He zones back in to hear Hermione beg once more, " _Harry_ , please just - " 

"Would you give it a  _rest_ , Hermione?" Fred snaps suddenly. All around them, words falter. The Weasley's never lost his composure like this before, and Hermione shuts her mouth in surprise. No one comes to her defense. Down the table he sees Ginny close her eyes in relief at the much-needed silence. Harry's shoulders relax slightly, but he's rubbing furiously at his wrists under the table. The achy sting helps him focus. 

"Let's get out of here," Dean murmurs in his ear. No one needs to tell  _him_ twice. He nods quickly, even though Dean doesn't seem to be in the best mood either. Hermione's too busy arguing with George and Fred now (or rather, losing an argument) to notice them leave. By the time she catches on, what she yells doesn't quite make it to them. It must be significant, the way people from other tables turn to look at her and then him. But Harry's too shaky and distracted to care. Dean seems really cross, and it seems like it's at him. Maybe he's mad at him for not eating, as well? If that's true, then he's officially made everyone around him angry. 

Whatever the case may be, it's making him nervous. 

Dean drags him up the staircase, and then into the nearest lavatory. He shuts the door behind them, and turns to face Harry. 

"What's going on?" He asks almost right away, looking at his face hopelessly, "Harry, Hermione may be annoying, but she's right. You have to eat."

"I'm eating," Harry mumbles. 

"But not enough, not even close. I want to help you, I honestly do. So does everyone else, even though that may be hard to see. No one's against you in this. But I have to know what's going on with you," Dean says passionately, "You have to tell, if not me then someone else, because otherwise it's gonna escalate. You're gonna be hospitalized or worse and I don't want to lose a friend over some fucked up reason like that." 

"I don't want to, either," He's being difficult, he knows that. But it's all confusing as hell. How did it get to this point?

"Then please, just tell me what's up with you," Dean begs, in this moment sounding exactly like a bushy-haired girl he knows, "You told me it's not a body image thing. Then what is it? Help me out, because I don't think that people just stop eating for no good reason." 

"I don't know," Harry rubs the marred skin of his wrists raw. He feels jumpy, and lost. Everyone's against him, now. 

"Damn it, Harry!" Dean says, gritting his teeth, "Why do you always have to shut everyone out? Why can't you just - " His sentence never gets finished. He flails his arms exasperatedly, dangerously close to Harry's head. _  
_

Harry's not freaking out, per say, but he's also definitely not calm. Because those hands look choppy and angry, and Dean looks frustrated and annoyed out of his mind and not like himself at all. (It's _scary_. He's scared)

And Harry's had too much experience with hands, hands slapping him and squeezing his windpipe to silence him, hands grabbing his arm and leaving finger shaped bruises on his skin. He's had too much experience with  _angry_ hands, he should say. And so, even though he hasn't dealt with them in over a year, he can't help the flinch that comes. 

Dean looks a little surprised, taken aback at this. If so, he's got to be even more caught off guard when Harry hugs him. 

"Harry - ?" 

"Don't," Harry attempts to articulate, grabbing the folds of Dean's robes and burying his face there, "Don't, just - one sec - please." He's shaking. He can't help it.  

"You're shaking, babe." Thank you, Dean. He doesn't respond. 

They stay like that for a bit. Harry's brain is jumpy and lost, and he can't even focus on anything except the way Dean smells. Sometime later, he realizes Dean's arms are wound around him, holding him close, and he gets wrapped up in that too. It's safe, and cozy as hell. (Draco did this in bed, but his arms were always cold and brittle, he needed to be held as much as he was holding. Dean's different. He's strong, and warm, and stable, and not likely to die or run off anytime soon. Which is always a plus.)

After a while, Harry feels okay enough to pull back. But when he tries, Dean remains firm, hugging him closer. Harry's not one to resist physical contact. He hugs back, and sighs. It's nice. 

"Okay," Dean says gently, hooking his chin on top of Harry's head, "Now you either have to tell me about the eating thing, or explain what just happened. Because I'm a bit lost on both." 

"Can the second part wait for another day?" Harry sighs. He feels Dean rub patterns on his back, shivers slightly when his finger traces his spine.

"Of course. But you really do need to tell me about the eating thing, because I would not be surprised at all if Hermione's already gone to Madame Pomfrey about all this. I just want to help, yeah? And I feel like you weren't being completely honest the other day when you said it wasn't an issue with how you saw your body." 

"I'm sorry," Harry breathes. 

"No, don't be, because I kind of jumped on you about that," Dean says quickly, "I just want to know how to help you. Because I want to see you put on some healthy weight. I feel like I'm gonna break one of your bones if I squeeze too hard. And. It's not a good feeling if I'm honest." 

"Okay, well, it is sort of a body issue thing," Harry says hesitantly, but honestly. Anything to make Dean keep holding him like this, "But it's also other things too. Um, I like the way it makes me look. I like seeing my collarbones and cheekbones and all that. But it's also, erm, I like the way it feels. When I'm hungry. And when I throw it up." 

"Have you been throwing up!?" Dean's voice goes slightly frantic. He's still holding it all together pretty well, Harry'll give him that. 

"Not for a while," Harry answers truthfully. He doesn't want to see Dean's face, doesn't want to see the disappointment there. 

Dean obviously doesn't get it. How could he? How could he understand the way hunger pains makes him feel proud, the way throwing up makes him feel lighter and happier? How could he possibly understand the aesthetic of seeing the fat melt off of your hips until there's nothing left but sharp, prodding bone? So he tells it, albeit with lots of stammering and mumbling, but Dean keeps holding him through it. And that makes it worth it. 

"Thank you for telling me," He says, when Harry's finally finished. 

"Thank you for  _listening_ ," Harry murmurs, "Sorry I'm so fucked up." 

"Not a fuck up," Dean insists, "There's definitely things about your life that have fucked you _over_ , but I'm not blaming it on you. Never. And you  _told_ me, which is wonderful, because now I know what's going on and we can work on on helping you." Harry can feel him smiling, and he's dying to look. He tilts his head up and sees those sparkling brown eyes, those fucking _dimples_ he's so gone for.

"Plus, you're not allowed to talk bad about the guy I love," Dean says, his eyes searching Harry's own. 

Wait, what? 

Before Harry can say anything, Dean leans down and kisses him. 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Harry's brain malfunctions. 

For a second, it feels like Draco. Impulsive. Because Draco was the epitome of impulsiveness, always doing things on a whim. 

But as Harry starts to kiss back, the thought fades away and parts of Dean come out. He's careful, cautious, his lips trembling. He leans back slightly to clarify if this is okay, but before he can get a single word out Harry's on him again because he  _wants_. He wants this, so much, never dared hope that Dean's feelings would be anything past platonic. Maybe he could've clued in on it once or twice or a million times, the way Dean put his arm around him at the table or kissed his forehead that one time when he was having a bad day. But he was so adjusted to how Draco always took the lead, was always straightforward and completely blunt with his detached emotions. There was no hiding anything between Harry and Draco, just raw desperation and loneliness that drew them together. But this is different, because everything is different. People could judge them, people could make inferences about Dean based on Harry, and people could isolate them. Their friends could disapprove. Dean's probably using this as a way to release sexual frustration anyways, an experiment or whatever the fuck. Harry knows that's probably how this will end between them (if it ever even starts), because Dean will realize how fucked up he his, or that he prefers birds over blokes. Harry prays that this isn't the case. Dean's the only Gryffindor who's really actually seemed to accept him the way he is, has proved himself to be so much more than just a friend. He's someone that Harry can talk and laugh with and someone who will listen to him unfailingly. He's a blessing. 

This, right now, is definitely more than okay. It's perfect. Dean caresses his cheek, kisses him languid and slow but passionate at the same time. It makes Harry's breath hitch, makes his knees weak even after it ends. 

"Is - " Dean's voice is hoarse, but he clears his throat, "Is this okay? For you?" 

"It depends on what 'this' entails," Harry says. Against his will, he can feel himself smiling. Dean's eyes are sparkling, and his lips are puffy. Harry loves it. 

The glazed look in Dean's eyes fades slightly, the heat of the moment fading away. (Draco probably would've been dragging Harry to their dormitory by now to take it further, even if it was their first time doing anything between each other. Inwardly, he tells himself to stop comparing the two. They're nothing alike, the both of them. It's not fair to Dean.)

"Okay, well," Dean laughs nervously, "Um, well. I don't know if you know, but I'm gay." 

Harry bursts into laughter all of a sudden. He can't help it. It's shouldn't even be that funny, but it is, because the Weasley twins have made enough gay sex jokes in front of them for a lifetime. Hermione has raised her eyebrows at them so much he thinks they should be twitching from muscle overuse. It's so obvious that Dean feels no sexual attraction towards the female population, but he's standing nervously in front of Harry like Harry might back away and yell at him. 

"I think that was more than a little bit obvious," chuckles Harry, watching Dean's face relax, "Possibly. Maybe. I don't know. I had my hunches, but having Hermione, Ron,  _and_ Ginny all informing me that you came out made me slightly more sure." 

"Shut  _up_ ," Dean smiles hard, "I didn't know if you knew!" They laugh for a second.

But then it fades, and awkwardness makes a reappearance. 

"I'm serious though," says Dean, taking a deep breath, "I've known for a while. And Hermione and Ron have been telling me that you're single and you're gay, too." 

"Oh." 

"Well, is that okay? Like..." He looks anxious, looking at Harry. 

"Of course," Harry says automatically, "I don't mind. And I really like you. I think you're fit as hell." 

"Well, I mean, same, obviously. I just wanted to know. Like, would you want the same thing? To be. Closer than we already are, I mean?" 

"What?" 

"Like, a relationship?" Dean clarifies, and  _oh_. For some reason, that possibility never occurred to Harry. It's obvious now that he thinks about it, but the idea still has warmth rushing to his toes. They could  _date_. Be a thing. Kiss each other in front of other people. It sounds so amazing and he giggles with the euphoria of the thought.   _  
_

"I want a relationship. But only if you do," He says to Dean, who nods eagerly, "Like, a private one? Or?" 

"Mm. I don't necessarily think that we could hide it from anyone, love. The moment we come back to the dormitory, I feel like everyone's gonna know already. We have the biggest gossip in school in our house anyways," The name  _Lavender_ goes unspoken. Harry smirks, "And plus, I have  _plans_. I don't want to have to tiptoe around everyone else and hide our relationship. I'm sorry. But it sounds like so much work and I don't want to have to pretend I don't adore you."

"You adore me?" Harry's brain seems to fixate on the most trivial part of that whole spiel. 

"Obviously," Dean rolls his eyes, but he's grinning wide, "I think the whole school knows by now. I didn't necessarily keep it subtle." 

"Fair enough." Because that much is absolutely true. Dean wears his heart on his sleeve sometimes. It's obvious if you get to know him, that when he fidgets he's embarrassed, when he rolls his eyes he's nervous. And apparently when he wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your forehead it means that he loves you. 

"So, would you want to maybe possibly date?" Dean bounces on his toes, "I'm so,  _so_ sorry that I'm asking you in a men's lavatory when I'm supposed to be talking to you about other things. I am  _so_ sorry, because I was planning on asking you in a different way? But, um. I do love you, and I love you a lot. I think I've had a crush on you for a while. And I want to take care of you, and I want to be closer to you, and I want to kiss you more. Because I've been waiting to do that for  _forever._ But, just, is that okay with you? Or like, do you feel the same? Do you need space?" 

Harry rolls his eyes, laughs, "Dean Thomas, you sound like a broken record. I've already said that I want a relationship. And there's no other bloke I'd rather be seeing." 

"Really!?" Dean's stupid beam is worth everything in this world, "You mean that?" 

"Of course I mean it," Harry allows himself to be hugged close. He hugs back, this time much, much differently than before. There's no fear or panic. He feels like an emotional rollercoaster, but it's hard not to when Dean's gone from talking to him about his possible-maybe eating disorder to confessing his love for him. It's weird, but it gives him a pleasant rush. His heart is pounding and he knows he's smiling like an idiot, "Is it official? May I go send an owl out to everyone in the school? Ask Dumbledore to make an announcement during dessert?" 

"You might as well," Dean says slyly, "Because I am  _not_ going to be able to keep my hands off of you, babe."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for the short chapter. I'll expand it later when I have time (so come back to read in a few days!) but I have a family of seven and we all share two computers. So it's very hard to try and write when there's constantly people asking me to get out.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have the flu:/

As predicted, word spreads around fast. After another long talk in the lavatory, about eating and boundaries and such, the sun’s officially set (literally, although Harry supposes it could be metaphorically as well). It smells like summer, like the promise of a new start and happiness. The weather's even begun to change from wet snow to warm humidity. Harry feels optimistic. The two of them talked about how Harry’s uncomfortable eating under everyone’s scrutiny, how the pressure makes him lose his appetite. So they both made a plan to nab food from the kitchens before every meal, and eat it wherever Harry wants instead of in the Great Hall where everyone watches him. Dean will write down how much he eats, so in case Hermione ever wants to check she can. It sounds lovely, and he imagines eating outside by the lake and under the trees with just Dean to talk to. He feels guilty separating himself from Hermione and Ron, but they’ve proved to be more than stressful at mealtimes.

Then, they leave the bathroom and Dean takes him on a walk around the castle. When they make it to the third floor Harry notices that they’re holding hands. It feels so natural, like they’ve always been so close and comfortable around each other, and he relishes this feeling. He loves how Dean doesn’t try to take advantage of him, how he doesn’t immediately drag Harry to a private area to fuck him senseless. Harry loves a good shag, obviously, but in the past to Draco it became more about coping and forgetting than being close to Harry. About fucking until he literally was too tired to think about something else. He could tell the difference, because Draco often wanted to keep going until they were both exhausted, until Harry was crying with oversensitivity and trying to squirm away from his thrusts. He likes that kind of shag sometimes, but not all of the time, and especially not when he had homework or he was tired or already sore from the previous night.

He’s brought back to the present as they walk around the school and talk. Dean rubs his thumb over Harry’s, and kisses his hair repeatedly, like he’s reveling in this new freedom. Harry feels the same way. It’s so _lovely_ , not having to hide anything, and he kisses Dean’s cheek without a hint of anxiety. He keeps waiting for Dean to shrink away, to look around in a panic or push him off, but he just reciprocates the affection and giggles adorably.

When they walk into the Gryffindor dormitory, many of the people are lounging in the common room, probably trying to wind down after the tense meal. Hermione and Ron jump up from their seats as they enter, and instantly, everyone’s eyes zero in on Dean and Harry’s linked hands. Harry can feel himself turning red, but Dean just swings their arms happily. Hermione raises her eyebrows, but her lips also quirk up slightly. No one stops them, and they go up to their dorm to work on homework and cuddle.

Within a day, many people in other houses know about them, too. Lavender and Parvati have been the most active in these past few hours than they’ve been since the Yule Ball (Harry doesn’t remember anything from that, just leaving about a fourth of the way through with Draco and waking up with a terrible hangover. He does remember that it was rescheduled to be right before Christmas though, so everyone could go home to their families). Dean doesn’t necessarily try to hide their relationship, either. He sits next to Harry in Transfiguration, puts a hand on his thigh under the table. Harry’s nervous about what the teachers may think of them, but when Professor McGonagall notices their close proximity she just smiles and _winks_ at him. He blushes enormously.

As it turns out, many people already thought they had been dating.

For breakfast, Seamus goes into the Great Hall early like he always does and brings the rest of them some food. They all eat on their beds, and the conversation quickly turns into interrogating Dean and Harry about their new relationship. It’s lighthearted and fun, even if Ron’s a bit weird about it. 

However, when they’re due at their table for lunch, Dean and Harry branch off from the crowd all heading towards the Great Hall. They slip into the kitchens. Apparently, Dobby’s working somewhere around the Ravenclaw table, and so they receive their food relatively fast. They duck out, and end up wandering up to the clock tower.

It’s soothing, watching birds and the occasional thestral glide through the open air. Dean takes off his robes to embrace the heat, and Harry ends up doing so, too. He’s wearing a long sleeved white shirt anyways, with the cuffs firmly buttoned around his wrists and long enough so that they don’t inconveniently ride up. The warming spring breeze weaves through their hair and bakes their skin as they talk.

“What are you doing for summer break?” Dean asks conversationally, throwing a piece of his sandwich over the railing and watching as an incoming owl swoops down to eat it. Harry wonders if Hedwig is okay, decides he should probably visit her sooner rather than later. He has a feeling that he’ll need her soon to write some long apology letters.

“I’ll probably have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry’s eyes widen suddenly. He hasn’t thought about _them_ in a while. Dudley’s face pops into his mind and he cringes, “My aunt and uncle’s house. I have to every summer.”

“Oh _yeah_ ,” Dean draws out the word, “I forgot. Aren’t they, like, really awful?”

“The worst,” Harry confirms, staring at his food. He’s eaten over half of it and hadn’t even noticed, but now at this new unsettling topic his stomach is making itself known again.

“Well,” Dean says optimistically, shifting his position so he’s seated closer to Harry and their ankles are crossed, “You’re always welcome at my house, I’ve written a lot about you and my mum loves you. I can even rescue you if you ever need. Because, you know, Mum knows how to _drive_."

Harry laughs, and after a fleeting moment his sickening anxiety is driven away for the time being. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler chapter kinda. summer needs to come back now

They finally have a weekend in Hogsmeade, about a week before exams and two before the third task of the Triwizard tournament. Harry’s been alternating between going to class and studying, with reluctant meals in between. Everyone’s shifted their focus towards testing as well, cramming in last minute knowledge and looking over old notes. Some of them are dated back to the very beginning of the year, and because of Harry’s less-than-stellar attendance, he has to borrow Dean and Hermione’s to study off of. Dean more so because Hermione still accuses him of missing class in the first place, no matter the circumstances, and she’s extremely stressful to study with.

So the upcoming weekend to Hogsmeade is greatly anticipated by everyone, even the oldest students. Everything’s turned lush and warm again, and it’s agony to sit in classrooms all day while the blue skies and greenery beckon through the windows.

Harry likes to spend all of his spare time up in the clock tower with Dean, which is now their new go-to, as people rarely come up here. It’s out of the way, in an older part of the castle that isn’t close to any classrooms. The actual area with the enormous clock is awash with daylight filtered through the glass, and either side opens up to corridors exposed the outdoors. While a convenient way to keep track of the time, it’s also perfect because they’re almost always alone and easily able to see anyone approaching in the corridors. The frigid elements strip away its convenience in the winter, but it’s paradise in the summer. They come up here often, to eat or study or talk and sometimes all three.

They haven’t told anyone where they go when they come here. Harry tries not to read into that too much, but he knows that it would lose some of its charm if the others were able to find them whenever they pleased.

They’re there like every day when Dean asks Harry to go to Hogsmeade and the third task with him.

“Hitting two birds with one stone, are we?” Harry smiles, setting down his (copied) notes. This year, he’s discovered that he’s lost a little bit of his proficiency in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but improved greatly in Transfiguration. Professor Moody seems disappointed in him, like he was a show that ended up with a bad result. He doesn’t go on and on about how he needs to learn to protect himself against Voldemort like Remus would’ve, though, which is fine by him. He doesn’t need to be reminded what’s already been drilled into his head.

However, McGonagall seems pleased at this transition of his. She tells him so after class one day, and he finds himself working harder and reading up on the subject more so he can grasp a better understanding of it. Because before this year he didn’t understand the point of it, really. It was a foreign concept to him, and seemed like one of the more trivial subjects to learn about. Muggles didn’t run around changing objects and they got along fine. But now he’s warmed up to the idea, of making things how you want them, manipulating elements and objects in order to make them work in your favor. He feels extremely accomplished Transfiguring things, at the immediate outcome that tells you whether or not you succeeded. Hermione tells him one day that maybe it’s a psychological shift (really, who put that girl in Muggle Studies?), but he thinks that it’s just a new perspective.

Whatever the reason, it alarmed _everyone_ when Harry began reading up on Transfiguration in his free time. He's just fascinated in the scientific aspect of it and how precise it all is. The subject itself is black and white, right or wrong, and a combination of those can either lead to perfection or disaster. Perfection's a concept that appeals to Harry, and in this subject it's tangibly attainable.

(Potions as well, he supposes, but _Snape_ teaches that. Which automatically means it’s last of his priorities or interests)

Transfiguration's what he’s studying up on today, because he really wants to get good marks in his exam. Dean’s been musing through his Herbology textbook, but he’s set it down in favor of looking at Harry. 

“Well?” Dean demands impatiently, teeth worrying at his lip.

Harry leans over to tug it out with his thumb, “Yes, of course, love. You think I’m going to turn down my gorgeous boyfriend on two dates?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Dean breathes out in relief, chuckling, “Because, as you very well know, they’ll be our first two _proper_ ones. I don’t think being up here counts as a date.”

“If so, we’d have a lot under our belt,” Harry laughs, “But yes, of course, I’d love to go with you to Hogsmeade and the third task. _Honey_ ,” He adds on, because Dean and he have a running joke between the two of them about who can come up with the cheesiest, most disgusting pet name. It's slowly evolved into an excuse to call each other sappy names, but. It started out as an ironic thing, he swears.

Dean giggles, looking flustered as he busies his hands with his textbook. Harry resumes his studying, but a few minutes later Dean breaks the silence, “So I take it you’re not competing in the third task?” Either he’s procrastinating on his reading, or he’s actually interested. Harry looks up and sees that the book is still in his lap and open, so he takes the question for genuine curiosity.

“I assume not,” He rolls his eyes, “I don’t even think I’m in the Daily Prophet anymore when they mention the Triwizard Tournament.” He doesn’t read the newspaper that much, but when he does it only mentions the other three competitors. Sometimes, they allude to him and occasionally there’s even a small article about his lack of notability and death-defying acts this year. There _was_ a big article one time, when he first started hanging out with Draco and the others. It talked in great detail about how he was mixing with Death Eaters’ children, the very people that he should be enemies with or at least should resent. He remembers that it upset Draco a great deal, as well as Theo, when the article picked at and dissected their families. That night they drank themselves into oblivion, and Harry guiltily helped them to their dorm afterwards.

“Yeah, you kind of fell off the grid there for a while,” Dean says absentmindedly, “Ah, well, they’ll probably just mention it when writing about the third task. ‘ _Harry Potter attends third task as a viewer with loving and handsome boyfriend, Dean Thomas_ ’,” He recites in a perfect impression of Rita Skeeter’s annoying voice. Harry laughs. The hag’s tried to interview Harry multiple times this year, and he prides himself in the fact that he eluded her each time. He skipped classes, made excuses, and in one desperate moment even tore out his Invisibility Cloak from his bag. Eventually, she stopped badgering, instead choosing to focus on Fleur Delacour’s supposedly scandalous love life.

Harry did fall off the grid, and he’s just extraordinarily thankful that they didn’t overanalyze his downward spiral. That people just left him alone, because frankly he thinks that would’ve made everything about a thousand times worse. He would’ve gone to live with the centaurs or at the very least stayed in the kitchens with the house elves. They lived there, why couldn’t he? Dobby was his biggest fan anyways, and he would never sell him out to the Daily Prophet.

Everything’s changed now though, and he’s so bloody thankful that he’s here with Dean studying for his exams and laughing, instead of hiding or dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanksgiving twist at the end


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, i can honestly say i forgot all about updating this yesterday. im reading a fic atm and it has consumed my entire being

“This is boring,” Dean whispers in Harry’s ear. Harry nods in silent agreement, sipping at the foaming butterbeer in front of him. They’ve been in Hogsmeade for about an hour and all they’ve done is go into The Three Broomsticks to get drinks and talk. Which. Isn’t boring, per say, but Harry definitely had higher expectations for today. It _is_ their first date after all. He’s relieved to see that Dean’s eyes are glazed over at the drone of the conversation as well.

The booth that they’re in is far too small for the amount of occupants. Angelina and Katie are with Lee Jordan, Fred, and George, discussing Quidditch, while Dean, Neville, Seamus, Ron, Hermione and Harry are together talking about something else (Harry lost interest a while back). Ginny peeled off to find her friends a couple of minutes ago. Harry’s sure that everyone’ll go their separate ways in due time, but for now they all seem to be perfectly content on staying put. The warm air of the vicinity makes Harry sleepy.

“Hey, don’t you fall asleep on me now,” Dean says, reaching for his hand. He suddenly sets down his drink and excuses the both of them. Hermione smiles, while Seamus looks slightly disappointed. The older Gryffindors aren’t paying too much attention, too fixated on the current professional Quidditch standings. Now that the Triwizard Tournament has eliminated the possibility of playing this year, everyone seems to be obsessed with the professional British and Scottish Quidditch league. It’s made the Gryffindor dorms into a site of thoughtless gambling and betting.

Outside, Dean sucks in a big breath of fresh air, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I thought that was a bit of an uneventful start to our day,” Harry gets a little thrill at the mention of _our_ , “Let’s go see if we can find something else to do,” He slips his hand into Harry’s, despite the influx of Hogwarts students milling around that can surely see them. He continues talking without a hitch, “Also, I’ve decided beforehand that today we are not stepping one foot into Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. It’s the most cliché date destination in the world and I don’t feel like succumbing to society’s standards.”

Harry laughs, because Dean says the weirdest things. His mother seems to fit her role of being a literature professor at the university perfectly, because Dean’s inherited the way of talking that includes eloquent words without any effort on his part.

He nods in relief at the suggestion, though, because it always seems a little stuffy in there. He doesn’t quite fancy going in and having to compete with other couples about who looks the best together. Instead, they wander into Honeydukes and browse through outrageously named sweets. Ice mice, jelly slugs, pink coconut ice, and Shock-o-choc just to name a few.

Dean laughs as he peruses over the labels. “It really amazes me how many sweets they have,” He muses, “Wizards? They have so many. I think my mum would murder me if she knew the actual extent of the Honeydukes industry. She saw their other shop in Diagon Alley and wanted to go in, you know? It nearly gave her heart failure. She told me that I wasn’t allowed to go there because I would rot all of my teeth. If I were stupid enough to tell her that they had a Honeydukes in _Hogsmeade_ too, she wouldn’t sign my Hogsmeade slip next year.”

Harry laughs, “She sounds strict.” Inwardly, he imagines what his own mum would be like. It’s a thought that frequents his brain, but never gets old. Usually he thinks that she would be really cool, protective of Harry but at the same time relaxed about unimportant things. Occasionally, it will occur to him that she can’t have been perfect, that every mother has their flaws. It doesn’t even matter anyways, though.

He bites his lip and tells himself to stop thinking.

They leave the shop, and walk down the street. Soon, they make their way into the surrounding forest, dodging hanging branches and sticks on the ground.

Dean shrugs, “She’s not _strict_ , just overprotective I guess. I think she always thought that not having a dad would cause me to go off the rails. Or more like, feel abandoned. So she made sure to let me know that she was always there for me, and she’s still pretty protective about me. It was a huge surprise when I got accepted to Hogwarts, but it was also a relief because she knew other people were looking after me and she could finally focus on her job.”

“She must be a lovely woman if she’s the one that raised you,” Harry murmurs, and Dean smiles at him and bumps their shoulders, squeezing his hand.

“She _is_ lovely,” Dean beams, “I can’t wait for you to meet her. I’ve written her all about you, actually. She says you sound great.”

Harry’s aware of Dean’s closeness with his mum. He mails her at least twice a week, sometimes three if it’s a stressful one and he’s procrastinating on homework. In their first year, Seamus and Ron always got on him about it, saying that he needed to become more independent and get over his homesickness. Gradually, they all came to accept that it wasn’t homesickness driving Dean into writing the letters, it was the close relationship that he and his mother shared. Harry immediately blushes at the thought of being the subject of some of these famous letters.

Harry’s jealous of what Dean has with his mum. Not everyone’s that lucky to consider their mother one of their best friends.

They continue talking, just like at the clock tower. It’s easy and unforced, admittedly with lots of snogging. Harry loves kissing Dean. It’s gentle and languid and sweet, and Dean holds him around the waist. It makes him dizzy with all of the affection. He’s not adjusted to being in the attention of someone else so completely, but he wants to feel like this forever.

They walk around for a while longer, completely absorbed in each other. It’s amazing, forgetting about everything else and tuning out the world in favor of Dean’s awful story-telling and cheesy pickup lines. He’s extremely grateful when he looks away from his boyfriend’s face for the first time in a while and finds the sky darkening. A brilliant sunset is on display.

“Pretty sunset for a pretty boy,” Dean squeezes his hand. He knows, without even looking, that Dean’s wearing a grin.

“ _Stop_ ,” Harry complains, without any bite. In fact, he's trying to hold off a smile of his own, “I’m going to go mad with all these compliments.”

Dean kisses his crazy hair, arm around his hips, “I’m mad for you.”

Harry can’t help but roll his eyes. His boyfriend was a sap. The sappiest of them all. And coming from a life of relatively little to none sappiness, this was a dramatic change. Before Dean, Harry would’ve been able to confidently say that people like him didn’t exist. They were just too good to be true. And now, well.

"This is nice," He hears Dean murmur after a silence. Harry hums in agreement, his every fiber in pure happiness right then. 

It was, to put it eloquently, nice. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, i think im going to wait to post again til after holidays. unfortunately i can relate with this chapter as finals come up, and im sure many of you are too busy studying to read these updates anyways. ill be back mid january at the very latest! im sorry if this chapter blows, i spent about twenty minutes on it. ive been studying since i got home

Their Hogsmeade date, as well as it went, quickly slips to the back of Harry’s mind. All at once they’re _assaulted_ with reminders of the upcoming exams. Even though Dean and Harry have been studying together for a while, most of the professors see this week as a way to cram in last minute information. Harry finds himself reviewing _and_ taking notes in most of his classes, trying and failing to multi-task. He ends up even more frayed than he was to begin with.

The symptoms of exams are already prevalent in his peers. Hermione never leaves the library in her off time, snapping at anyone who gets too close. Ron slumps around with bags under his eyes as he tries to do all of the studying he’s been putting off in just a few days. Seamus gets abnormally angry at Dean and Harry when they wake him up coming in one night. Everyone starts talking less, preferring to stick their noses in books, and laughter is almost scarce. Even _Fred_ is seen perusing a book, something that should be documented in textbooks everywhere.

As pathetic as it sounds, Harry can barely cope. It’s just so stressful, trying to make up for almost a term’s worth of absences. As unprepared as Ron is, at least he was in class, and meanwhile Harry has to manually look up all of the missing knowledge at the library. Dean’s helpful, but no sane person’s going to sacrifice hours of their own reviewing time just to help their boyfriend find some dusty books. Harry gets sentence-long responses out of him at the very best, and if he asks too many questions about something Dean tries hard to mask his annoyance but it’s still blatant.

Harry doesn’t mean to, but he stops eating.

In his defense, it keeps him alert. He can’t accidentally fall asleep if he’s starving, and the hunger buys him two or three more hours of precious studying time. On Thursday, he realizes he hasn’t eaten in three days, and allows himself to go to the kitchens to get a roll (carbs for energy and all that) before going back to the books. He _cannot_ afford to do poorly these exams, and it would be the most humiliating thing in the entire world to be held back a year. It’s never really happened that he knows of, most students just take remedial classes if they’re behind, but surely they can’t let him continue if he shows no knowledge on any of the subjects.

In addition, Dean promises him an amazing orgasm for every Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations. They both know that with his previous marks and the unfortunate circumstances this past year, it’s going to be almost impossible to obtain even one Exceeds Expectations. Nothing about his attendance or attention span this year particularly exceeded anyone’s expectations.

George points out that as he’s technically a Triwizard Tournament competitor, he could always just miss the exams and spend that time preparing for the third task. However, Dean and Hermione disapprove of it almost instantly, saying it’s dishonorable and lazy to do so. So he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, unless he wants to anger everyone in the school who has to take examinations.

By Friday, Harry’s almost completely undone in every sense of the word. He’s eaten a roll over the course of four days, and despite having less than ten hours of sleep under his belt, his skin is humming with itching energy. His eyes sting from staring at books all day. Suddenly, he really just wants to have good sex and a long cry. It’s inappropriate to even think of, Dean and him have only kissed and maybe that’s a bit prude of them, but. Harry can’t long for a shag when they haven’t even properly touched each other’s dicks.

Instead he slips away, murmuring something about going to see where Ron is. Dean doesn’t pay him any mind, just nods and flips a page in his textbook. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but Harry hopelessly thinks that even if Dean knew what he was going off to do he would be too busy, too distracted to stop him. The thought makes his heart heavy.

His feet carry him to the lavatory, and he makes it into a stall before he collapses. He slides down the wall to sit against it and dig out a blade from his book bag. Comfort and relief instantly slacken his bones. He hasn’t felt this in control in _ages_. He pulls up his sleeves and instantly takes a sharp drag across his skin, actually _moaning_ out loud at the relief.

It feels amazing. And maybe it shouldn’t, maybe it’s absolutely daft to take a sharp blade and cut himself. He’s stopped questioning these things long ago. _Fuck_ what other people think, honestly. This is for him, not for anyone else, not a cry for attention or a way to scar himself up as much as possible. It feels good, the sharp sting. It provides comfort and clarity, and he thinks he deserves it for soldiering through this week with a tired smile on his face running on empty. This is a reward.

An hour later, he's singing a different tune.

 _Give a man an inch, and he’ll go a mile,_ Harry muses to himself. He’s nearly decimated his arm, and there’s red spilled everywhere. _Everywhere_. He’s too dizzy to attempt a cleaning spell even, far too dizzy to lean over and reach for toilet paper. It’s not serious, he’s definitely not going to die (probably). He just took his stress out on himself and it ended poorly, is all.

Slowly, Harry registers someone coming into the restroom. He closes his eyes and prays that the person finishes fast, so he can have his privacy. No one ever uses this place, for it’s out of the way. He’s been here many times before and not once has he been interrupted, but he supposes today is a perfect day for everything to go to shit. 

“Harry?” And, just his luck, the voice belongs to Dean, “I know you’re in here,” He continues when Harry doesn’t respond.

“How did you find me?” Harry questions, his voice airy and weak (and fuck, if that doesn’t give away the fact that he’s doing something suspicious he doesn’t know what will). He’s out of it, honestly. Even as Dean approaches the stall he’s in, having located him, he doesn’t move to clean up. Dazedly, he wonders if that says something about this fucked up situation.

Dean unlocks the stall door, and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry about the cliffhanger!!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i lied to you all. i updated again, instead of giving myself a month long break like id planned. the only reason i was able to write this during finals week was because i had a snow day today and wanted to take a break from studying

“ _Harry_ ,” Dean’s shouting at him. Dimly, he realizes that the floor’s been Scourgifyed, and Dean’s now working his wand over Harry’s thighs. Some part of his mind recalls the fact that Dean wants to be a Healer, has been studying up on healing spells and is probably the best one to be closing up his incisions right now, “Harry, _don’t you dare close your eyes._ ”

If he were in his right mind, he would make a joke about blinking. But he just sighs sleepily instead, forcing his eyes open so that he doesn’t get yelled at. His boyfriend seems to be struggling, biting his lip as he looks over him.

“I’m getting you to Madame Pomfrey,” Dean finally decides, lowering his wand hand. Every cell in Harry’s body screams against this solution, because he can absolutely not be seen like _this_ in the halls. Like a bloody rag doll that Dean will probably levitate above his head as he walks, while everyone else looks on. _God_. He’d rather take the blade that’s been cast aside and finish it with a deep one across his neck.

“I don’t want to,” Harry says, almost _whines_. He sounds like a small child, but he doesn’t even want to think about getting up. He just wants to fall asleep.

“Do you think I bloody well want to?” Dean almost explodes. Harry’s never seen him this upset, “I don’t particularly fancy parading my sliced up boyfriend around the halls. _I_ don’t even want to be here in the first place. I didn’t wake up this morning wanting to see you dying right before my eyes.”

 _I’m not dying_ , Harry protests. As he opens his mouth to voice it, another wave of lethargy rolls over him. His eyes roll to the back of his head. Faintly, he hears Dean say something high and panicky, hears him scramble about. Guilt buzzes through him now that his boyfriend’s been brought into this sticky, fucked up mess.

Dean ends up taking him to the hospital wing. It’s dark outside, the sky an inky black now. Many of the students have retired to their common rooms in order to take their studying somewhere more private. Only a handful of students see them in the hallways, and none of the blood is visible on Harry thanks to Dean’s wand work. He probably still looks like Death himself, though, if the looks on the students’ faces are anything to go by.

Madame Pomfrey doesn’t look too surprised to see them, not even when Dean opens his mouth and begins crying again. Without much fuss, she pulls Harry to one of the beds and begins tending to him in a clinical fashion, giving the other Gryffindor directions. If it were anyone else she probably wouldn’t trust them, but she’s taken Dean under her wing as an apprentice of sorts and he seems to know the layout of the room.

Within minutes, he’s got blood replenishing potions inside of his system, as well as spells layered over that decrease the damage to his skin and the recovery time. The room doesn’t look quite like it’s spinning anymore, but dizziness and exhaustion are still seeping through his bones and nerves. He feels like a voodoo doll that’s been attacked by a cat with sharp claws.

“Mr. Thomas, that was some quick thinking on your part,” Madame Pomfrey praises his boyfriend, who’s helping her put all of her things away. Dean keeps sniffling and wiping his brown eyes with the back of his hand, “If you had waited much longer, he would’ve started suffering from severe blood loss and his body would’ve had a harder time accepting the blood replenishing potions.”

“Can I stay with him?” He hears Dean ask, hopefulness laced in his tone. 

Madame Pomfrey answers in the negative, “Unfortunately, I can’t permit it. He’ll be discharged in the morning, I assure you, but I must contact the Headmaster about the course of events tonight. I think you’ll only be a distraction to the conversation at hand.”

Her words sound ominous. Deep down, Harry knew that the medical witch couldn’t possibly just let him off the hook after healing him from this. He’s fucked up royally this time, and unfortunately she can probably tell that he hasn’t been eating all week, too.

“Okay,” Dean whispers. His figure comes over, and Harry can feel the press of cool lips to his forehead before his boyfriend exits the hospital wing.

He prays that no one else notices his absence, but of course Dean will probably feel obligated to tell Hermione and Ron regardless. The picture of mental stability that he’s worked so tirelessly to construct has been peeled back, and now it’s like everyone’s gawking at what was hidden underneath all along. Or maybe his mind is just on too many drugs to think proper.

“You gave us a real scare, Mr. Potter,” The medical witch says sternly, coming over to him at last when all the supplies have been put away, “I’ve notified the Headmaster about what’s happened, but I highly doubt that he’ll be able to come and see you, as he’s involved in affairs in London tonight. That being said, I still need you to tell me exactly what happened. I can bring in Professor McGonagall if I must.”

Harry sighs in defeat and stares at the ceiling. In this state, he could probably only mean to say a few words and a whole flood of truth may come out. Then again, Madame Pomfrey is under confidentiality not including Dumbledore and if he doesn’t tell the truth then Professor McGonagall will come up here and extract it out of him. He’d rather do this his way, under his control. 

“I was stressed,” He explains vaguely. His tongue feels like a flopping fish in his mouth, “Exams are coming up, and I just needed to blow off some steam.”

Madame Pomfrey raises her eyebrows, pulling up a seat from behind the curtains. She casts a Silencing Charm around his bed, so that even if there’s eavesdroppers or unexpected visitors they won’t hear. He’s grateful for that.

“So, this is blowing off steam?” She gestures to his bandages, “ _This_ is how you handle stress? I notice that you’ve lost weight as well.”

“If I was hungry I would be able to study for longer,” Harry tries to dismiss it, “But before that, I’d been eating fine. My friends made sure of it.”

“Did they also know that you were harming yourself?” The witch raises her eyebrows. (Inwardly, he groans. It doesn’t look like sleep is on the agenda for him anytime soon, especially since the Healer seems to be just getting settled)

“Dean and Hermione both knew a little bit,” He admits, wanting this conversation finished, “They didn’t know I was still doing it, though. Dean was surprised when he found me tonight.”

She comments dryly, “I think ‘surprised’ is definitely one way to put it. You’ve caused a scare tonight, Mr. Potter.”

He shrugs.

“And I hope you don’t think I’m just going to let this one slide. You’ve got a lot of people worried about you, particularly Mr. Lupin, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They’ve written the school multiple times this year asking for an examination of your mental health. I’ve given you opportunities to recover, to get back on track academically, and you’ve done well so far. Until tonight. So I think there’s going to have to be other measures taken.”

Harry protests, “I’m not crazy.” It sounds an awful lot like she’s considering admitting him to an asylum. Are those even around anymore? He doesn’t know.

“I never implied that you were,” Madame Pomfrey says, not unkindly, “I just believe that you’ve had a rough go of it this year, and there were many circumstances that added stress onto your shoulders. Even with a support system, it would be ludicrous to suggest that you recover from that in a matter of a few weeks. So before you go forward, I need to figure out how to help you. That means you’re going to have to undergo a medical examination.”

He panics. In the Muggle world, medical examinations meant probing instruments and therapists. It meant psych wards and hospitals and medications. He has no idea about the fundamentals of mental health in the Wizarding world. Part of him wishes that he’d at least read up on it a little bit, because this field of work does seem particularly fascinating. But it seems unlikely that this sort of thing can be helped with just a few spells.

In fact, he’s never really _heard_ of any of the students at Hogwarts being mentally ill. From what he’s gathered living in the Muggle world in the summer (despite how bleak his experience is there), mental health is a subject that’s being discussed and examined more and more. Actors are coming out with their mental illnesses and trying to make a difference in how the world views them because of it. But in the Wizarding world, it seems to be a very hushed subject.

Madame Pomfrey proceeds to examine him, through spells and questions. She asks him how long he’s self-harmed, how long he’s had eating disordered habits. He answers honestly, because he doesn’t particularly feel like letting her summon a Legilimens to gauge whether or not he’s lying. She asks him to describe his eating patterns and how often he takes a blade to himself, and then casts a few spells over his head. They seem informational, but he can’t tell the exact effects of them.

“To be honest with you, Mr. Potter,” The mediwitch says at last, after at least an hour of the ongoing examinations, “I think at the moment, taking a trip to St. Mungo’s in the morning would be your best option. They would know the best treatment for you, and you would be able to postpone your examinations until a time when you’re deemed mentally fit.”

Harry shakes his head quickly; he can only imagine what people would say when he left school grounds to go to St. Mungo’s during the school week. He knows that, realistically, Madame Pomfrey isn’t the most capable Healer in the Wizarding world. There must be experts that can surely help him better. Then again, he’s managed to make it this far without killing himself in the process.

“No, please,” He tries to reason, “Give me one last chance to prove myself. You can do whatever you want to make sure I’m eating right and not doing anything bad. Let me take my exams so that those are out of the way, and if anything else goes wrong you can take me to St. Mungo’s.”

They come up with a compromise. Harry may take the examinations on time, but only if he takes the potions that she gives him throughout the week. Potions like mood stabilizers and stress relievers that need to be prescribed or recommended by a Healer in order to take. She tells him to come to her office every other evening so she can examine his eating patterns and any marks on his body through spells. It’s agreed upon that if there’s any other sort of breakdown on his part, he has to go visit St. Mungo’s right away. If he makes it through the end of the school year without any, he still has to go sometime in the summer. She says that she’ll contact him through the school and either her or a Healer from St. Mungo’s will collect him at the Dursleys.

He wants to tell her that any sort of living arrangement with his aunt and uncle is bound to have a negative mental effect on his health, but keeps silent. After all, he usually ends up leaving halfway through the summer holidays to live with the Weasleys, and he’s sure that considering the events of this year Sirius and Lupin will want him to be under their care as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the next few weeks during holidays, ill be updating randomly, either more or less than usual. the "once-a-week-on-Wednesdays" schedule will go out the window til the second week of january or so


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo sorry guys!! i was originally going to make this into a series, and i had a plan typed up for it and everything. let me know if you guys still want it (it would be like 40+ chapters with both works) but im running out of steam and i feel like my writings been getting progressively worse on this one as i lose motivation. its about what you guys want, of course, but if im not going to make it into a series then voldemort wont make an appearance and this will end in about five or ten chapters

In the morning, he’s released and excused from his classes taking place before lunch. He goes to the Gryffindor common room, now empty of students, and begins to timidly study once more. His skin is achy and tender, most of the cuts on his body having healed already and therefore devoid of the sharp sting that he usually associates with them. Snape brought up flasks of different colored potions early that morning upon Madame Pomfrey’s request. To his immense relief, the greasy-haired Professor delivered them straight to the medical witch and didn’t look through Harry’s curtains to see who it was he had brought them for.

  
The mood stabilizers and stress relievers have worked a small miracle on his emotions so far, and he feels strangely calm and level-headed as he pores through his books. The idea of examinations no longer daunts him as it did the previous night, and he can definitely concentrate easier without the anxiety weighing on him and influencing his every thought.

  
He glances at the door every few minutes or so, panicking slightly about the thought of people coming in. It’s only logical that they do, seeing as four other people live in this dormitory, but it’s more likely than not that they know something happened and Harry has never wanted to be away from people more (with the exception of one).

  
Dean comes up at lunch. He practically bursts in to find Harry sitting on the bed, and immediately he crosses the room to hug him.

  
“Don’t you ever worry me like that again,” Dean orders sternly, seemingly intent on squeezing the life out of him anyways, “I don’t think I slept a wink last night.”

  
Guilt washes over him. While he was sleeping soundly, Dean was almost surely tossing and turning in bed, probably worried sick. He nods and relaxes into the hug, cherishing it for a few moments before Dean pulls away. If it were anyone else worried about him like this, he would feel suffocated.

  
They talk for a long time, way longer than Harry anticipated, about the conversation between Harry and Madame Pomfrey. He twists the bedsheet in his hands a little, not sure what his boyfriend must be thinking now that he knows he’s quite possibly mentally ill. Dean seems calm about it though, musing over some of the Wizard techniques regarding psychological health.

  
“I’m glad, babe,” He says honestly to Harry. He’s taken one of his wrists and his thumb’s now rubbing gently over the healed cuts, “I was worried about you, I think we all are. And from the sounds of it, Professor Lupin and Ron’s parents are as well. I’m glad you’re taking the examinations on time and she gave you potions to help you through them, but I don’t think it would be a bad idea to go to St. Mungo’s. I’ll even come with you, if you want. I just want you to get better.”

  
“Thanks,” Harry says meekly. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so understanding, so patient with him. It’s confusing. If Ron and Hermione were in this position (and they will be soon, undoubtedly. He probably can’t hide this from them), they would most likely view this dilemma as something to fix about him. An obstacle to get past before he can become a better wizard.

  
(It’s exhausting, is all. People expect him to be polishing up on his magic and working on new, advanced spells in order to protect himself against Voldemort. They expect him to be a capable wizard, a prodigy, and yet he can barely rise to their expectations because of what’s going on in his head)

  
“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Harry whispers, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. He can’t get over this, even though his boyfriend seems to have done so already. He’s pathetic, “I’m so sorry I put you through this. I’m sorry that I’m fucked up like this, and don’t say I’m not, because I am.”

  
“Babe, no,” Dean sounds sad. Harry feels him hook his chin on the top of his head, “I think the only thing fucked up about all of this is the fact that you don’t get a break from it. You know? Okay well, first of all, let me go back to the first thing you said. You don’t have to be sorry, love, about what’s going on inside of your head. You did worry me, yes, but that’s to be expected. You can’t apologize for who you are, or what’s happened to you this year. Second of all, you’re not fucked up. I’m allowed to say it. You’ve just had such a hard time these past few months, and never once have you been allowed to step back from it or take a moment to collect yourself.”

  
“I could’ve, though,” Harry argues, feeling stupid, “I didn’t go to class, and I ignored everyone. It was my choice to get involved with Draco and them, and it was my choice to start doing things I shouldn’t have been doing.”

  
“Yes, of course,” Dean kisses his hair to calm him, wrapping both his arms around his waist from behind and pulling him even closer, “But in all honesty, what else could you have done? You needed someone to turn to, and all of us weren’t there for you when you needed us the most. I don’t think being isolated and ignored counts as giving yourself a break.”

  
He does have a point there, Harry will reluctantly admit.

  
“So, what’s your plan of attack?” Dean squeezes him, “How much are you going to tell the others?”

  
Harry sighs heavily, “Well, I’ll probably have to tell Hermione and Ron everything. They deserve that much. Or, well, maybe not the details. Dumbledore will probably tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about what happened and the options Madame Pomfrey gave me, which means they’ll probably tell Professor Lupin, too. George and Fred and Ginny will probably find out about a lot of it naturally. So that really just leaves Seamus and Neville…”

  
“I can take care of that part, if you want,” Dean offers quietly, “I’ll just tell them the bare minimum about what’s been happening and all that. I’ll tell them not to ask questions, either.”

  
“Okay,” Harry sighs, relieved, “Thank you. Yes.”

  
“You’re gonna get through this, babe,” Dean announces to the room, “I believe in you. And there’s no rush, either. You’ve got to work on yourself before you can hope to accomplish anything else, and that includes giving yourself time. I just hope you know I’ll be right there beside you for all of it.”

  
“Okay, thank you,” Harry repeats, “I’ll be better for you.”

  
“You don’t have to be better, love. I just want you to be happy.” 


	29. Chapter 29

Even with the assisting potions and Dean’s comfort, the exams are still stressful. Oftentimes the concoctions prescribed by Madame Pomfrey don’t completely suppress the anxiety and panic. He stays up into the flimsy hours of the morning, reviewing and poring over subject content as fast and wholesomely as his mind can process. He’s not alone. Hermione and Ron have been promised a complete explanation of what happened a few days ago, but Harry plans on telling them after exams are over. He can’t deal with their reactions on top of the workload. Still, they stay by his side suspiciously. It’s predictable that Hermione would sit with Harry to study for hours at a time, but Ron is a completely different story.

  
Dean studies with them too, and somehow he manages to convince Neville and Seamus to do the same so they can all work as a unit. It’s quickly discovered that it’s much easier this way, with everyone exchanging notes and quizzing one another. Every hour or so they break the monotonous reading with a trivia game in a certain subject. It’s decided almost immediately that Hermione will participate as a judge, because the odds of winning are almost zero with her playing.

  
They each have their strong suits in different subjects, and so therefore it’s easier to ask someone the answer to a question instead of trying to find a book in the library or searching through old notes. They cause a bit of disruption in the common room with their frustrated groans and competitions, but soon Parvati and Lavender join them as well, and the prefects give up on trying to silence them. Everyone’s already up anyways, leafing through books to cram in last-minute information. It’s probably safe to assume that the rest of the houses speckled around the castle’s interior are in much of the same state, lights on and students up in all of the dorms.

  
The day of the examinations goes okay, surprisingly enough. Dean wakes him up with a lovely kiss, and they get dressed together and take a walk around the castle before heading to the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry loves summer, especially summer mornings. In the winter, morning feels desolate, with snow stretching for miles towards the weak rising sun. It feels like a frozen cage. But summer feels like biting into celery, wet, fresh, and green. Maybe Harry lives in the wrong place if he’s not an advocate of cold weather, but it’s not like he has a choice. His only other option would be to attend Durmstrang (god forbid) and from what he’s heard, their weather is much more severe among other things. It’s not like he hates _all_ aspects of winter. He likes the first snows of the season, and weekends where snowball fights and fort building takes place on the school grounds. He likes Christmas, and seeing the snow fall outside while he opens gifts. The winter mornings just stretch his appreciation a bit thin.

  
But this, though, is perfect. It’s warm, and Dean holds his hand and shows him all of the plants he knows the name to. It feels like a good omen for the examinations, this cozy feeling spreading through his chest and dissolving in his bloodstream. He goes back to the castle with Dean, _strengthened_ somehow by the bright and promising summer sun.

  
His exams go smoothly. He goes through an epiphany as he sits down to take his first test, that whatever happens will happen. All he can do is the best of his ability, and that’s it. It makes it easier to swallow when he doesn’t know the answer to a question for the rest of the day. Occasionally, he’ll around and catch Dean’s eye, and the smile that they share motivates him. Never once does he lose focus or does his mind drift off, and that’s probably the biggest accomplishment of all. He’s able to focus throughout the whole day without any panic attacks or urges to cut or _anything_. His head is clear, and he wonders if it’s from the potions or just the headspace he’s in.

  
(Maybe it’s the blowjob that Dean promises him in between their Herbology and Transfiguration exams, but whatever)

  
After they’re all finished, they go to the lake to finally relax, sitting underneath the shade of a giant tree. Hermione likes to masochistically illustrate each one of her examinations afterwards, bringing up all the bad parts and going over them before finally letting the subject drop. So they indulge her for an hour or so while she talks and frets. Neville and Seamus play a rather mindless game of Exploding Snap on a flat stretch of ground, cheering when they get further than they expected. Ron stretches next to Hermione and lays on his back, tilting his face towards the sun and putting his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. Harry sits next to Dean, dipping his toes in the water, while Dean rubs his back underneath his shirt.

  
Eventually, Hermione directs her rant to Ron when she realizes Dean and Harry have tuned her out.

  
“So, you think you did well?” Dean asks quietly, his hand pausing to thumb over a knot in Harry’s spine.

  
“Well as could be expected,” Harry says, “The potions really helped, I think. Either those or the walk we took this morning.”

  
“That’s good!” Dean praises him, “I didn’t think you looked anxious or anything, you seemed very sure of yourself. ‘S a good thing.”

  
“I mean, if you say so. That could also mean that I failed massively, and just bullshitted my way through every test,” Harry shrugs, trying to keep a smile off of his face.

  
Dean kisses the side of his temple, ignoring Seamus’ predictable groan, “Well anyways, if you fail all of your exams I’ll be the one in the relationship who earns all of the money. You can be the adorable housewife that cleans up while I go out and work, and then we’ll have great sex.”

  
“Um, I don’t think so,” Harry dismisses the ridiculous notion, “You’re the most organized person I know, and I’m a slob. I’ll be the famous Quidditch player who brings in all the money.”

  
“Hmm,” Dean pretends to ponder it, “Fair enough, I suppose. You talented thing with your Snitch.”

  
“I do my best for you.”

  
“Oh, just for me, huh?”

  
“Mm.”

  
Suddenly, Dean stands up, knocking Harry off kilter, “Harry and I are gonna head back to the castle.”

  
Hermione smiles privately at Harry.

  
“Suit yourself,” Seamus says dismissively, waving them away as though they’re house elves.

  
Once they’re in the castle, Dean takes the initiative. He leads them through the castle, until they find a small broom closet. Harry recognizes it as one of the rooms that Rita Skeeter tried to corner him into, it has a window and not much supplies, mostly empty space. Dean sits him on the bottom step and suddenly Harry is _very_ confused.

  
“Dean, what - ?”

  
“I _do_ believe I promise you a blowjob earlier,” Dean says, one of his dimples popping as he grins, “I’m very proud of you babe, truly, and so I just want you to relax and let me take care of you. You’ve been under so much stress.”

  
“Can I do you, too?” Harry breathes, already hardening underneath his trousers. _God_ , he’s not going to be able to last. He hasn’t been blown in ages, ever since Draco, hasn’t even had a good wank in a long time. With everything that’s been going on, he’s been a bit preoccupied.

  
He’s saved the awkwardness of seeing his sliced up thighs, Dean just unzips his fly and takes his cock out. He goes down on him almost _immediately_ , and it’s the most gorgeous thing in the world. Dean’s lovely cheekbones show as he sucks, and his eyes water as he goes as far as he can. It’s clear that Dean doesn’t have much experience in this field, possibly none at all, but he picks up things fast. Whenever he does something that emits a noise from Harry, it’s automatically taken into consideration and he does it again later on.

  
“You’re so good,” Harry moans, hands gripping the edge of the stair, “God, Dean, I love you so much.” He can already feel a hot coiling in his abdomen.

  
His thighs tense as he comes, shooting into Dean’s mouth. It’s amazing, even though he can hear himself make horribly embarrassing noises. Dean swallows it all, blinking his eyes fast to get rid of the tears forming in the corners. He sucks for a little longer than necessary, and Harry squirms until he pulls off.

  
“Was that okay?” Dean asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’ve never done that before, if you didn’t notice in the first ten seconds.”

  
“Shush, it was great,” Harry sighs, taking a moment to collect himself, “Switch with me, I’ll get you off too.”

  
Dean’s cock is _big_ , bigger than Draco's by far, enough to make Harry a little nervous. He’s a little bit weak as he sucks, moaning more than moving, but Dean manages to come as well. Fast enough to make him smirk as he smacks his lips.

  
“How are you so good at that?” Dean laughs incredulously, breathlessly, “I hate you.”

  
“Shut up.”

  
They both chuckle for a little bit before adjusting their clothes, casting cleaning spells and then exiting the broom closet to make their way to the dormitory. Harry can’t keep the smile off of his face. He’s so glad examinations are over. 


	30. Chapter 30

It doesn’t take too long for Harry’s calm waters to ripple once more. Only this time, the trouble comes in the form of a weather beaten envelope delivered by a very heavy owl. They’re at lunch when the letter’s delivered, and at once Harry recognizes the effeminate handwriting.

  
“I have to go,” He mumbles to Hermione. Dean left to go to the loo a few heartbeats ago, and so there’s not much protest as he gathers his bag and exits the Great Hall. His blood is pounding in his ears, because it’s been _months_. The parchment inside could only contain a sentence or several paragraphs, and he’s frightened of both possibilities. Scared that he’s been cast aside and rejected, yet scared that he’s still needed for something.

  
He finally settles in the same broom closet where blowjobs were exchanged not even a day ago, and settles on the bottom step. It’s hot in here, the summer sun beating in through the blurry glass and no air circulation whatsoever. He feels comfortable enough though, which is surprising given his history with small spaces.

  
With shaky fingers, he opens up the letter and begins reading.

  
_Harry_ ,

  
_I’m sorry for the lack of contact since I’ve left Hogwarts. I hope you know that it’s nothing against you._

  
_It’s very different here, but I can say that I’ve finally considered myself adjusted. There’s a few blokes here that I can share a smoke with and they’re mild about it. Still, they’re not you and the others. I think you would like one of them, his name’s Alec. He reminds me of you sometimes. He’s one of the people I’ve grown closest to, and I won’t pretend that it’s not for comfort in familiarity._

  
_Father has finally started tightening the reigns on my education, and I’ve had to send weekly updates to him. After a few setbacks, my marks have gone up significantly from those that I was receiving at Hogwarts. They have courses here that are more based on my interests, so it’s almost entertaining some days with the things I’m learning. We do learn at a faster pace here, thus one of my reasons for not corresponding with you before now. I’ve had a time of it trying to adjust to this new schedule_.

  
_One girl in particular has assisted me in adapting here, her names Charmain. I’m quite attracted to her, and as of recently, we’ve become an item. She’s my girlfriend now, and I know that Father is excited to meet her, as she’s of pure blood._

  
_I know what you’re thinking. It’s been a strange few months for me, and I’m still working on trying to figure everything out. Charmain is good for me, I think. She’s a very sweet girl, but she has a hot temper when provoked, and is much like me in many ways. I don’t know what’ll come of this relationship, especially because it’s still new. I hope you know that I’m not trying to undermine or minimize what we had at all, nor am I trying to forget it. I’m simply trying to move forward, and not wallow in the past. Unfortunately, that means leaving behind some things that are dear to me._

  
_I hope this letter finds you in good health, and I hope you’ve been getting better for both our sakes._

  
_Draco_

  
It’s very blatant, and Harry finds himself rereading the letter in order to seek out hidden connotations or double meanings. He can’t really find any.

  
He hates it. The letter itself seems final, with full closure. As though Draco doesn’t see a future in them. Which is fine, of course it is. Harry’s moved _on_ , he has a boyfriend, he’s come to terms with himself and he’s open about it.

  
It doesn’t seem like Draco’s faring much the same way. And that worries him. Lucius seems to have a very heavy influence in his life. He supposes that as they grow older, it’s more crucial that Draco be separated from bad habits and engrained in good ones so that he can grow up to be a desirable figure. In other words, Lucius’ doppelgänger.

  
It’s so obvious that Lucius doesn’t have any of his best interests at heart, only wants to have an accessory of a son to dangle on his arm and display for more leverage in the political field. Something to be admired and be proud of, and nothing else.

  
The worst thing is that Harry knows, just _knows_ , that Draco will most likely never get to be himself. He will never be allowed outside of the small, dark space that he’s been boxed into, will never be allowed to experiment or grow or evolve. Draco will never be allowed to show his emotions, will never be allowed privacy or freedom. It’s the fate that’s been set for him since he was born as an heir to the Malfoy name.

  
He can see it now so clearly, see Draco cast everything aside in order to please his father. He will do his best to forget the luxuries he allowed himself at Hogwarts, will work to clean up his image with the help of Lucius’ influence and wealth. He’ll continue seeing Charmain until he courts her, convincing himself that the decision was his own and for the greater good. He’ll spend his entire life acting as something he isn’t, putting on a mask at all times because undoubtedly he’ll never be allowed a moment of weakness.

  
Harry thinks of the Chinese practice he learned in school called foot binding. In order to reach a standard of beauty, the Chinese women had to break their feet and bind them painfully tight so it wouldn’t allow major growth, resulting in slender feet that were considered a beauty in those times. The idea seemed good at first, but it was an excruciating process that resulted in a life of disability and pain for the girls involved. It looked beautiful from the outside, but on the inside they were suffering.

  
The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

  
He doesn’t know how to fix this. It’s something beyond his control, and he can’t help, is the thing. Tears of frustration dot the parchment, distorting the ink.

  
It takes him a while to get up, and recollect himself. Part of him wants to go to Dean and talk about it, cry it out a little bit, but another part of him knows he needs to stop dwelling on this. It’s no use crying over something that can’t be helped, especially when Draco seems content with it (Or at least, resigned).

  
He ends up going to the loo first, to wash his face, before heading to the library. Once there, he heads to the back, by one of the windows, and finds a flat surface to write on before taking out his ink bottle, parchment, and quill.

  
There’s so many words he wants to write down, so many consolidations and encouragements he wants to put in ink.

  
At the same time, it’s not his battle to fight. He has his own that he’s working on right now, one that’s shaping up to have a good outcome. He can’t drown himself in depressing thoughts for no reason, can’t try to help someone who shies away from his assistance. Draco has a mind of his own, if he has half a brain he’ll come to his own conclusions and try to work out his own solutions.

  
_Draco_ ,

  
_I was happy to receive your letter. Hogwarts hasn’t been the same without you around, and Professor Snape even misses you. I can’t speak for the others, but it’s been disorienting not seeing you every day._

  
_I’ve been doing better since you saw me last. These past few months have been stressful to say the least, but I’m in a good place at the moment. I’m not as close to Hermione and Ron as I used to be, but then again, it feels like everything is a work in progress. Things can only get better from here, I believe. Or at least, I’m trying to convince myself of this notion._

  
_As for the others in Slytherin, I haven’t talked to them as often as I would like. I don’t know if you’ve corresponded with them or not, but I do plan on writing them over the summer holidays. Blaise has lost more weight, and Theo’s been absent in most of the classes I have with them, but that is to be expected._

  
_I hope for your sake, that you are truly happy as you claim to be. Charmain and Alec sound lovely, and I pray they can help you in a way that I can’t. I regret that I’m not able to be there for you if you need me, but if the time comes when you have no other option, you can always write._

_  
I won’t draw any conclusions with you and Charmain, only that I hope (again and again I hope), it is a relationship born from your own desire and not others’. If you are content with her and she provides comfort and care, then I advise you go for it. Not everyone is lucky enough to find someone they are truly happy with._

  
_I, too, am in a relationship with someone. You remember Dean Thomas, from my house. We’ve gotten very close, and he’s helped me out with a lot. Without him, I wouldn’t have made it to the end of the year. I’m proud to say that he’s my boyfriend, and so far there has been no negativity from others concerning the dynamic of our relationship._

  
_Durmstrang sounds like an interesting school. It seems like you’ve done a good job making a name for yourself over there. I’m happy for you, truly._

_  
I hope (again and again I hope) that you will find your peace there, as I have been trying to find mine here._

_  
Love,_

  
_Harry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will contact only smut, literally only smut. get pumped for my horrible attempt at it


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck me, fuck me. this was the worst case of writers block ive ever gotten in my life, kids. i never knew someone could be so bad at writing smut, so im just going to put this out here and hide!? sorry this was so damn late, god

Harry briefly wonders how he got here. Not even an hour ago, they were outside on their Quidditch brooms playing keepaway with the other Gryffindors, and now he’s in a dark room that quite literally appeared out of _nowhere_ somewhere on the seventh floor. Dean tells him that he heard about it from a friend in Ravenclaw, and that no one else can get in. It doesn’t stop him from glancing at the door every few seconds, though.

  
They’ve been snogging for what feels like forever, and while this isn’t a new activity for them or anything, for the first time it feels like it’s on the edge of something _more_. Dean’s openly grinding into him now, and he’s hard too, possibly even harder than Harry. They’re on a giant bed, because that’s the _only_ thing in this room besides windows. It seems like a very strange room to have at a Wizarding school, but then again, he’s basically Muggle-born and doesn’t know everything. Maybe this is perfectly normal.

  
Dean does something with his tongue that makes Harry moan, high and breathy, and suddenly his boyfriend’s pulling away to look at him in the eye seriously.

  
“Do you want to? Um, do _it_?” Dean asks, the epitome of nervousness. He looks like sin, his lips wet and plump, his eyes glazed over and pupils blown. Somehow he’s managed to disrobe himself while they were snogging, and he’s only got his pants and trousers on, his fly and button undone. Harry can see his bulge straining against the fabric clear as day.

  
“Do _it_? Are you a child?” Harry knows full well that Dean’s had sex before, because apparently his mother’s overprotectiveness could only do so much while she was at work and there was no one else in the house to kick out the Muggle blokes he brought in. Dean’s a right slag, as much as he’s tried to laugh and deny it he’s probably much more experienced than Harry. The blowjob was just a fluke thing, he was sure.

  
Now though, he’s not so sure. Because if he says this to all of the blokes that have been in his room at home, he’s probably scared a majority of them off with his childishness.

  
“Shut _up_ ,” Dean groans, taking off his trousers as they speak, “Harry, _god_ , I want to fuck you.”

  
“ _Please_ ,” Harry can only say. The precome staining his pants has almost made him completely undone, “If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

  
“Feisty one,” Dean flicks him, “Take off your clothes.”

  
He pulls out lube and a condom from nowhere when Harry’s done stripping. They make eye contact and. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room changes, slows down.

  
“So, um,” Harry says nervously. Dean is _hung_ , and he hasn’t had sex in months. He wants it more than anything, of course, but he’s not used to this. Draco always dictated what they did, always wanted his way, and Harry doesn’t know _how_ to be assertive like this.

  
Dean seems to sense this somehow, because his face softens, “Do you want it on your stomach or on your back?”

  
“My stomach, please,” He says shyly, almost like a question. He likes being able to grab onto the pillows.

  
“Okay.”

  
When Harry’s settled on his stomach, Dean gets a pillow and nudges him so he raises his hips, putting it underneath. It’s very thick, enough that it raises his arse up above his knees and head. He tries to relax, grabs another fluffy pillow to hold onto. But it just feels so weird like this. He’s not self-conscious about this area of his body or anything, because enough compliments from Draco have made him a bit more confident. But it’s strange, having his most intimate areas out in the open. Someone could walk in the room and see them like this. His face burns in embarrassment.

  
“How do you want it?” Dean asks, rubbing both his hands up and down his back and squeezing his arse.

  
“I don’t care?” He feels hesitant. He can only pray that Dean isn’t selfish, won’t fuck into him and come quickly just to leave Harry to finish himself off. He likes to think that Dean would never do that, but everyone’s only human.

  
“Do you want me to be rough? Or gentle, or?”

  
Well, fuck. What _does_ he want?

  
“Can you go slow?” He asks, because this is their first time together and he wants to remember this. Doesn’t want it to be a quickie, a fast fix. He wants it to be special. A part of him hates that he’s being so sappy about this.

  
“Of course I can,” His boyfriend reassures him from somewhere behind.

  
He hears the _snick_ of the lube bottle being opened, and after a few seconds suddenly there’s a fingertip at his rim.

  
“Relax, a bit, baby,” Dean says, before his finger pushes in. He’s glad they remembered to do a cleaning spell down there beforehand, because that would be probably the most un-romantic thing in the history of the universe. He sighs and tries to loosen up a little bit, while Dean drags his finger slowly in and out. It feels like his senses have been heightened. He’s aware of everything so much more than he usually is. After a few seconds, the strange feeling goes away and he moans quietly into the pillow he’s holding.

  
“Fuck, Dean,” He sighs, trying to suppress the urge to beg for a rough fucking, “Feels so good.”

  
“I’m going to add another finger, okay?” Dean asks from behind. He sounds breathless.

  
“Yes, yes. Okay.”

  
When Dean first catches on his prostate, he makes a filthy noise between a groan and a whine, and it has both of them in giggles for minutes after as Dean continues to hit the same spot over and over. He continues going for a long time, loosening him up slow and easy, and Harry’s thoughts drift around like water circulating in a fish tank as he sinks into the pile of pillows. By the time Dean pulls his fingers out (four of them, because they’ve been going for so long), his back is arched obscenely, and he’s moaning out incoherent things.

  
“Oh – oh,” Harry tenses as Dean’s knuckles catch on his rim, “ _Please_ , please fuck me, I’m ready.”

  
“Ready, baby?” He can hear Dean uncap the lube, can feel himself clench on nothing but air as he whines and rubs off against the pillow underneath him.

  
Seconds later, Harry gasps as Dean’s cock starts pushing against his hole. He _tries_ to relax, but his legs are shaking before Dean’s even halfway in and he’s sweating. He buries his face further into his arms, biting on the skin of his wrist to hopefully hold in some of his noise.

  
Dean’s bottoms out, and he moans so loud the entire castle can probably hear, his dick twitching violently against his stomach.

  
“Dean, _god_ , oh my god, oh … it’s so good,” He whimpers a little bit. He’s grateful that he’s being given time to adjust, because the burn is something that you never really get used to. They both stay there, Dean rubbing his back with both hands, until Harry starts to squirm in discomfort.

  
“You can move,” He says quietly.

  
Dean thrusts into him slowly, pulling out a bit and then pushing back in so deep that Harry’s legs kick a little bit. He thrusts for a while in the same way, sliding against his prostate, rearranging his intestines with how deep in he goes. It’s so amazing, so good, _fuck_ , Harry feels like his whole body is on fire. There’s a warmth coiling up in his abdomen, and he doesn’t even have time to warn Dean before he’s coming all over himself and the sheets.

  
Harry shrieks a little bit, his mouth open as Dean milks him straight through his orgasm. It’s so good that his ears are ringing, his legs quivering as Dean keeps fucking into him in the exact same way as before. Until moments later, when it becomes apparent that Dean has no intention of stopping, and it starts to hurt. Especially when his thrusts start getting faster, squeezing aftershocks out of him.

  
“Dean, _Dean_ ,” He whimpers loudly, tears sticking to his eyelashes as his hole and cock throb with oversensitivity, “Dean, it hurts.”

  
Blessedly, Dean stops behind him, all movements coming to a halt. Harry feels slightly guilty, because it’s obvious that his boyfriend was nearing his release, but all he can do is shudder and try to shy away from his giant dick. He reaches back and Dean takes his hand, intertwining their fingers and rubbing his thumb over Harry's.

  
“What happened, baby?” Dean rubs his back with his free hand, making sure not to move at all.

  
“I’m sorry, I should’ve waited for you to come, too,” Harry apologizes. He leans back to try and get a glimpse of Dean’s expression, and only sees confusion there.

  
“Wait, did you come?” Dean’s mouth falls open.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Merlin, I’m _so_ – fuck – Harry, I’m so sorry,” Dean looks horrified, “I didn’t even _know_ , oh my god. I’m sorry, I must’ve hurt you.”

  
“It’s okay,” He sighs in relief, as Dean pulls out. He watches his boyfriend finish himself off, and guilt twists in his gut.

  
They both cast cleaning spells over the bed and in Harry’s arse, and they both cuddle underneath the covers moments later. The idea of even _leaving_ this room in the next few hours is appalling.

  
“I’m so sorry,” Harry starts, “That was so selfish of me, fuck.”

  
“No, no, it’s alright,” Dean rushes to say, “It’s okay, love, it’s all good. That was the hottest thing ever. I’m just glad I could make you come.”

  
Harry sighs, wrapping his arms around him, “I guess, but I’ll try to wait next time until you’re coming, too. Or something.”

  
“Or something,” Dean echoes, “Well, I hope just now was as good for you as it was for me?”

  
“It was perfect.” Because it _was_ , it was everything he asked for, despite the little glitch at the end. It wouldn’t have been a big problem if they’d agreed on it earlier. He’s been overstimulated before, and he definitely could’ve come again if he’d had time to prepare himself. He just wasn’t expecting it. But it’s alright, because his arse is pleasantly sore, and he knows that he’ll stay that way for days.

  
Without much more discussion, he falls asleep breathing into the side of Dean’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> give me honest critique


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys soo much for being patient with me and sticking with me and this story!!! theres about to be a lot of action so prepare yourselves

Harry and Dean sleepily awake to Ron, Seamus, and Neville getting dressed in their dormitory. They’d both woken up in the middle of the night in that strange room, just a few hours prior, and the Fat Lady had been distraught about having to wake up before seven. Somehow, they’d gotten in without the others even stirring in their sleep.

  
It’s lovely, not having to rise with the sun to attend classes anymore. For a few panicky seconds, Harry feels like they’ve been skipping out on lessons as he comes to, before remembering they’ve already taken their examinations. It’s liberating not having to constantly review course material in his head all the time to make sure it stays there.

  
Dean blinks quickly before turning his face into Harry’s shoulder, making a confused noise at the commotion. The light in the room is almost blinding, it must be nearly midday. Harry wants to cherish these last few mornings at Hogwarts, because surely he won’t be allowed to sleep in so late at the Dursleys, “What the bloody - ?”

  
“The Third Task,” Seamus says by way of explanation. Harry feels multiple pairs of eyes rest on him, but he keeps his own shut, “I guess it starts tonight at sundown, but they wanted to have us all there an hour or so beforehand to get settled before they begin. We were just going to grab some lunch.”

  
“Do you lot want anything?” Ron asks awkwardly, determinedly looking anywhere but at Dean and Harry’s intertwined limbs. Harry raises an eyebrow. Surely Ron won’t be so naïve and prudent when he gets a girlfriend of his own.

  
“No need, we’ll come down in a few minutes,” Dean says drowsily, ignoring Harry’s pout and waving the others off.

  
The idea of climbing out of bed is so extraordinarily unappealing, but at least they’re not bombarded with frigid weather and snow. When Harry throws the blanket off of his legs they’re still just as warm, the sun shining down on them from the intricate window. He can see his individual leg hairs in the golden rays, and thinks there must be some kind of metaphor in that somewhere. Then again, there’s a metaphor in nearly everything.

  
He gets dressed, thankful that the robes aren’t a necessity in their uniform outside of the classroom. It would be blistering hot if he had to wear his today. Snape seems to be the only person in the castle who voluntarily wears robes during the summer.

  
Dean pops a kiss on top of his unruly hair, and it all feels very domestic.

  
“What a shame you’re not competing today,” He smirks as they pull on their socks, dimple appearing.

  
Harry throws a sock at him, “Shut it. It’d be a nightmare.”

  
“True, that,” Dean says, “A bit lucky you got out of this one, babe. Imagine having to do this and study for examinations. I couldn’t do it.”

  
Harry completely agrees. It’d have been absolutely disastrous if they’d required him to compete in these tasks. If he could’ve been described as frayed a few weeks ago, that would’ve been nothing compared to the catastrophe that would’ve unfolded had he’d participated in the tournament additionally.

  
He’s very glad that he’s here with Dean instead of off somewhere being prepped and coddled and bullied into doing well. Politics were never his strong suit, and the Triwizard Tournament is very much a politician’s playing field. He knows that Cedric’s probably been coached to represent their country well and to keep up a good appearance for the news. What a scandal it would’ve been if the Hufflepuff had been, say, going off to abuse alcohol and fuck pretty boys in the Slytherin common room this whole time. Harry can’t even picture it, and he doesn’t want to try. Cedric had an innocent face, and thinking of him being on the receiving end of sexual acts makes him want to vomit a bit.

  
They go down to eat lunch with the rest of the Gryffindors. Lunch is almost intolerable with the Weasley twins and their suggestive euphemisms, making Harry long for their niche by the clock tower, but they can deal just this once. It’s one of their last days here for the term, and Harry just wants to cherish it with his friends, as overrated as it sounds. Dean’s fingers dance along the fabric of his thigh as the rest of them talk, and Harry thanks Merlin that he’s not ticklish or sensitive because that would’ve proved troublesome.

  
It’s an extended lunch, and everyone takes their time. There’s no rush, so Harry finds himself looking at the artwork of the stained glass windows, the bewitched ceiling, the intricate details of the stone walls, all of the things that he never has time to fully appreciate during the normal school day. There’s never a lull in the conversation, someone always picking it up and changing the direction of it to refuel everyone, so he doesn’t have to worry about awkward silences or giving his two cents.

  
Finally, loud noises blare outside, probably intended to lure the curious student body out of the castle. He’s reminded of the children summer camps that used to take short trips to the park down their street, all the kids wearing matching, obnoxious T-shirts and following a leader with a whistle. Life is always about being summoned somewhere you’re needed the most, whether it be at school to receive an education, or to your boss’s office to lay out the future of your career, or to the kitchen to help clean the dishes after supper. It’s irksome at best being leashed and bent to someone else’s will, someone higher up on the totem pole than you, but he figures that it would be desirable in comparison to being unwanted. Being a lonesome guppy in a fish bowl, with no new corners to discover, no retreats from your mind, no friends and no purpose other to be on display.

 

Harry shakes his head, and wonders to himself why he's thinking about this.

  
They all go outside and head down to the Quidditch pitch. The stands are enormous, they always are, but as they all find a seat in the unlabeled Gryffindor section Harry realizes he’s never been a spectator like this. Has never been a bystander unable to manipulate the outcome of the event. He’s always been in the center, the one being paraded around, and now that he’s found a place out of sight and out of mind he can’t decide which one is preferable.

  
Hermione sits on one side of him and Dean the other, and right as he leans up against him he feels someone from behind tap his shoulder. He turns to see the gnarled face of Professor Moody, looking expectant and determined. Fucking professors.

  
“Mr. Potter,” He says gruffly, “Fudge’s expecting you down at the tents, something about an interview. I was asked to make sure you get there.”

  
“Professor, with all due respect, I’m not participating in this tournament. There’s no need for me to give any interviews,” Harry frowns in confusion. Why would the Minister want him to give an interview? Cedric was a much better representative of Hogwarts and their Ministry, not him, and Fudge hadn’t talked to Harry or acknowledged him in months. The sudden shift in gears was uncalled for.

  
Professor Moody shakes his head, “Potter, Fudge seemed very determined to get you down there. I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me.”

  
Dean’s eyebrows furrow, “Professor, may I come with? Just so he has some support.”

  
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. Thomas.”

  
“I’ll be outside the tent the whole time,” Dean promises, as they both move to get up. Hermione puts her legs up over their seats to reserve them.

  
Professor Moody doesn’t seem too excited, a bit angry actually, but he leads them out of the stands, down the staircase underneath the structure. There’s no one around, almost everyone came early out of excitement and hope for good seats. Harry can hear the creaking of feet and the babble of chatter overhead as people converse.

  
He can see the tent in the distance, but before they can start walking in that direction, Professor Moody swirls around at breakneck speed, Stupefying Dean without a word. Dean crumples to the ground, unconscious.

  
“Professor, what - ?”

  
“You’re coming with me, Potter,” The old man’s eyes are glimmering with something undefined, and Harry barely has time to say anything before he’s Stunned as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry ive been so inconsistent with updating, theres been a lot on my plate lately


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, to start off, I am the worst writer on this website ever. 
> 
> The worst part is, I literally have no excuse. I could say that I've had a hard time lately, but that's a lie. The truth is, I just genuinely did not want to write this chapter, and it was the worst case of writer's block like, ever. Just thinking about it made me cringe away from my computer for more than two months 
> 
> Because first of all, I did not have any desire to just completely copy and paste a section of The Goblet of Fire into my own work and pretend it's my writing. JK Rowling is a QUEEN and does not deserve that. So I wrote this whole chapter on my own, just taking bits and pieces of it, but the plot moves much faster and has a few different modifications because I'm impatient. I hate this chapter. 
> 
> Honestly, the fact that no one sent me any hate for being so lazy is a miracle. You are all amazing and I love you.
> 
> Hopefully writing will be easier for me now that this horrible part is out of the way and written.

Harry’s temporary unconsciousness does not contain any prophetic dreams or important warnings. He wakes up from the darkness tied to a cold stone slab of some sort, in a dark and poorly lit place. Fog curls in the air, fat and heavy and so thick Harry could almost touch it.

Why is it _dark_ , though? Moments ago it was mid-afternoon, and now it seems to be almost late evening.

For a moment, he considers closing his eyes again and feigning sleep. Granted, it would be a foolish plan. He knows logically that Stunning someone doesn’t usually knock them out for more than a few minutes unless they were suffering from preexisting health issues (although, given the circumstances surrounding the time of day, he would bet he’s been out for a while), but it would at least buy him some time if he was careful about it. He closes his eyes again almost instantly. He can hear not one, but _multiple_ people breathing, all around him, with feet shifting on the crunchy, dead grass and stifled coughing every few moments. He’s surrounded, from all directions, and he’s wandless.

This is not good.

He thanks any god that may be out there that everyone here is most likely _human_ and therefore can’t hear his frantic, pummeling heartbeat.

Suddenly, someone marches straight in front of him. They slap his face roughly, and the strength of the blow forces his eyes open. The man in front of him has an easily recognized face, if only because it’s so hideous. Peter Pettigrew.

The people surrounding him all have the Death Eater masks and the telltale cloaks. He is so _fucked_.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Potter,” Peter Pettigrew sneers. He looks just as unsightly as he did last year, with warts decorating his face and the same uncanny resemblance to a rat.

If Harry ever lives to have kids, he’ll ensure ten times over that no rodent of any kind will ever cross their threshold. He’d probably have to kill it on sight out of obligation to his parents.

In that moment, he realizes a few things. One, his arm has been sliced, with blood pooling in his curled palm. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and stretches his fingertips, so that the thick liquid hits the grass with a wet  _plop_. Second, there’s a large vat just outside of the ring of Death Eaters. The contents inside of it are bright, with steam pouring out of it and a bubbling, fizzing noise similar to that of Mentos candies inside of Coke. There are ancient runes engraved in the vat, just barely distinguishable from the dark material. If Harry didn’t have such good eyesight, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

This is Not Good. He is so fucked.

Worst of all, the air is slightly warmer than at Hogwarts and he can’t hear any signs of life outside of the immediate circle of people. There’s no far-off cries or cheering, no magnified voices to announce the Third Task. It could only mean one thing: they’re far away from Hogwarts, possibly _hours_. There’s not going to be any help coming for him.

He’s alone.

The final thing he realizes, is that Peter Pettigrew’s hand is _silver_. He would almost think that this is a development that happened a while ago, except for the fact that there’s still blood caked on the human portion of his wrist and presumably on his robes. He’s spent enough time with Hermione’s fascination in wizarding rituals to know that a reincarnation ritual of some sort has taken place. It doesn’t take a genius to find out who is being summoned out of the vat. As soon as the realization hits him, he frantically strains at the ropes binding him to a headstone.

Because, Death Eaters plus brutal tactics plus Peter Pettigrew looking like a lost puppy finding its owner?

As soon as the Death Eaters start to jeer, a figure rises out of the vat, skin steaming.

Lord Voldemort’s skin is waxy and grey, like rubber or candles. The moonlight shines straight off of his bald head, and his teeth are disgusting and mangled. His nose is nonexistent, two snake-like slits replacing where his round and full nostrils should be. His eyes are squinty and red, and he’s _tall_. Coming face to face with Quirrell’s possessed head and Tom Riddle’s former self was one thing, but this was a completely different spectrum. This was the man that gathered hundreds of followers single handedly, who bullied powerful authority figures and gave Grindelwald a run for his money. He exudes power and darkness, and the air seems to warp around him, the very elements of the earth bending to his will. Harry’s heart pounds so hard that it hurts.

Voldemort strides straight into the center of the circle and continues, directly to Harry. His grin is probably the last thing most of his victims saw before they died.

“Harry Potter,” the Lord says, almost speculatively. He tilts his head to the side, still grinning with his shark teeth, before touching Harry’s forehead.

Immediately, his scar explodes with pain. It’s like the epicenter of an earthquake, radiating hurt in every direction from that spot. His feet jerk with the sheer force that’s trying to worm its way into his consciousness. Harry grinds his teeth so hard that surely bits of bone are flaking off; he’ll do his best not to scream until he truly has a reason to. Predictably, that reason’s next on the agenda.

 _He can touch me now_.

An unspoken spell slashes the ropes holding him to the headstone. He lands on his feet, swaying a few moments before being thrown in the air once more by magic. The excruciating pain hits a second later, the cry of Voldemort’s _Crucio_ resonating faintly in his ears. His very bones tremble and jerk with agony, his intestines surely being cooked from the overwhelming presence of magic. He feels like his fingernails are peeling off, like his skin is being stripped away to reveal muscles and touchy nerves. He screams so loud and hard his throat’s raw in seconds, his limbs twitching and writhing of their own accord. This is what fourteen years of hatred and promised revenge feels like; he’s finally getting what he had been running from all this time.

It seems to never end, and Harry thinks in brief flashes of Neville’s parents. They went _insane_ from this spell, their sanity snapped like a brittle branch, like a tree in a hurricane. How long will this have to go on for until he breaks as well? He’s probably half as old as they had been at the time, his mind surely not as durable as theirs. Had the Death Eaters held experiments on other victims since Bellatrix destroyed them? Timed each individual as they were tortured to insanity, their pleas and screams falling on deaf ears?

Surely this isn’t the fate Voldemort has in mind for him, though. He’ll draw it out, milk all of the pleasure out of this little reunion that he possibly can, make Harry’s inevitable death last as long as possible in the most humiliating way. Being tortured to insanity was too easy of a way out, unless he intends to keep Harry as his slave and mock his existence every waking moment from this moment on.

Just as he can feel his mind starting to fray, the spell stops. The jeers of the Death Eaters slowly start to register, and his arms and legs are jolting so hard still he’s sure to pull a muscle eventually.

“Stand up Mr. Potter,” Voldemort’s cool voice commands. Peter Pettigrew hands Harry his wand, which he can barely manage to hold properly. Everything hurts, even his teeth. He realizes that tears are leaking out of his eyes, and swipes ashamedly at them before realizing that there’s more important things to attend to at the moment.

“Duel with me,” the Dark Lord continues, once he’s shakily on his feet, “Prove to everyone here that you are no more extraordinary than any other fourteen year old boy, even with your arrogant title, _The Boy Who Lived_.” He whispers the last part mockingly, to the delight of the Death Eaters. They laugh amongst themselves. Oh, so _this_ is how he plans on killing him.

He’s never properly dueled, outside that joke of a dueling class with Lockhart and Snape. Besides, how would even an extremely skilled dueler be able to ward off all of these wizards? There was no solution for him, no possible way out.

These are the last few minutes of his life, and he’s being laughed at. It’s fitting, he thinks bitterly, that he’s not going to be able to die with Dean’s hand in his, with any of his loved ones surrounding him. He’s going to die  _right here_ , his body’s going to be found in a few weeks or maybe even a few days, mangled and mutilated beyond belief.

God, what the fuck. He’s only just lost his virginity in the last year.

Voldemort shoots a spell at him, and he dives to the side, just behind the tombstone he’d been tied to.

“We’re not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” Voldemort says quietly, while his Death Eaters laugh and cackle disgustingly.

In Harry’s peripheral vision, he spots something gold glint. It’s a cup, and while it might be unremarkable, Harry knows that Moody ( _Moody_? He’s not sure about that yet) had to have gotten here somehow, and a fair bet was that he got here with Harry through the usage of a Portkey. He also knows that the Death Eaters prefer flashy things over unremarkable objects, and that if given a shoe or a golden cup they would almost certainly choose the golden cup every single time. It's also possible that a Death Eater was instructed to move the cup out of sight, and forgot due to the current events. Someone with a mundane task like that would undoubtedly be a bit thick. 

A spell is shot once more, whizzing just past his ear and hitting a tree in front of him. Harry stifles a gasp, his whole shaking body tensing up, before…

He runs at the cup unpredictably, running with all of his might, dodging spells that’re shot his way. It’s easy to say that Voldemort probably wasn’t expecting him to flee like a coward. Admittedly, he has a proud streak a mile long, but he’s not stupid, either.

He can hear Voldemort shout another curse, sees the green hurtling at him, can see the inch between his life and imminent death be made apparent, before he touches the Portkey with his pinky.

And in an instant, everything is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I haven't lost any subscribers or readers because of my laziness! I love all of your guys' comments so much and reading them makes my day. Thank you all for being so patient with me.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "she finally updated!!"
> 
> also, Fudge isnt an asshat so theres that

Harry lands on his back, every bone and nerve in his body thrumming with pain. He couldn’t get up if he tried, simply whimpering and feeling his limbs shake. The cut on his arm is too deep, hasn’t been given a chance to heal, and he can feel it bleed freely once more as well as his irritated scar. It stings where the ropes were used to tie him to the headstone, and his mind is jumpy and sluggish all at once. Exhaustion and fear battle out for a dominant place in his mind.

  
It’s all he can do to pray that the _crack_ of the Portkey alerted others to his location. As the adrenaline fades away, all he’s left with is exhaustion and lingering terror. The image of Voldemort grinning is burned into his eyelids, and he still half-believes that he _must_ be dead. There’s no roaring broadcasting of the Third Task, but he can hear voices in the distance, leading him to believe that the Task is over already. _Please, please, let them find me._

  
Suddenly, a few voices snag his attention.

  
“Albus, _Albus_ ,” An elderly woman’s voice croaks, “There’s a body over there,” He can pick out Professor McGonagall’s voice, harried and anxious, “Is that him?”

  
_Him_. Have they been looking for him?

  
The footsteps get closer and closer, and he hears a muffled gasp before he’s lightly shaken. He gathers all of his remaining strength into opening his eyes, staring lethargically at the slim figures of Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. In an instant, it looks similar to how Voldemort towered over him as he twitched from the after effects of the _Cruciatus_ , but he doesn’t flinch.

  
“Oh heavens,” He hears someone say, and another figure leans over him. It takes him a moment to identify the figure as the Minister of Magic. The bowler hat being twirled in his hands gives him away. He looks distraught.

  
“Mr. Potter, where were you in these last few hours?” The Minister asks sharply. As Harry’s vision adjusts to the nighttime once more, he can see the wizard’s eyes roam over his forehead and his jolting arms and legs. He feels like a madman, like the connection between his mind and body has been broken. As he opens his mouth to speak, blood dribbles out from his lips. His head lolls back.

  
_Pull yourself together,_ he reprimands himself.

  
“Perhaps now is not the time…” Professor McGonagall starts anxiously, but before she can get another word in,

  
“Voldemort,” Harry chokes, sputtering out more blood down the front of his robes. Dumbledore slides his withered hand underneath his head to support it, presumably so he doesn’t suffocate, “H-he’s back. He’s back,” He repeats, and then again, just because it doesn’t seem to be registering in their heads, “Voldemort’s back. He’s back.”

  
“What led you to believe that You-Know-Who has returned, Mr. Potter?” The Minister seems agitated. It’s probably the last thing that he wanted to hear tonight. Harry knows that the return of the Triwizard Tournament was meant to instill some sense of normalcy, a distraction to focus on outside of the rising events of the Dark Arts. But still, his choice of words, as though Harry _imagined_ it, makes his blood feel hot with the implied accusation.

  
Harry relays a lengthy version of the night’s events, making sure to describe what Professor Moody said and the vat that Voldemort came out of, as well as the Dark Lord himself and the cemetery they were in. It’s so draining, he feels his eyelids flutter as he tries to tell the story. Fudge’s face grows more and more horrified as the string of events begins to take shape. Because they must know by now that Professor Moody’s been missing for hours, as well as the Malfoys (whom Harry knew almost for certain were in that graveyard when they were expected at Fudge’s right hand tonight). He’s determined to tell it all so that he won’t have to again, so he pushes through the fatigue to say everything. Fudge’s jaw drops further almost with every sentence, and Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows remain constantly raised.

  
“Is this the truth?” Dumbledore asks seriously, once he finally finishes.

  
“It is,” Harry murmurs desperately, tears restarting although they probably never stopped, “I swear on my life, it is. It’s all true.”

  
Indeed, he had described the shapes of the runes and the details of the ritual so accurately, as well as the cemetery, that it must’ve been hard to believe he was lying in addition to the wounds and obvious after effects of torture.

  
“Harry!?” He hears a familiar voice call, and he almost breaks down in relief as a few pairs of footsteps race over to where they’re all positioned.

  
He never thought he’d get to see Dean’s face again, but here it is, hovering over him, washed in moonlight and features arranged into beautiful concern. His eyes widen as he takes into account the blood and shaking, and immediately he’s kneeling next to Dumbledore to touch his face. Hermione and Ron loom over him into his view a few seconds afterwards, breathing heavily.

  
“Harry, what – ” Dean’s lip trembles, “What’s going on?” The tips of his fingers are warm.

  
“Mr. Potter’s been through an ordeal tonight,” Professor Dumbledore says solemnly, his spectacles reflecting only the sky. His expression is impossible to read, “He needs to go see Madame Pomfrey as quickly as possible.”

  
Without the necessity of his complete concentration, Harry lets his mind wander for some much needed relief. The thought of staying in the present or remembering what happened tonight is almost painful. He feels Dean take almost all of his weight as they walk, and Hermione comes to his rescue on Harry’s other side. The blood flow from his arm has almost ceased with some sort of charm cast on it. He can feel Dean breathing raggedly as they walk, wants to look over to see his long eyelashes reflect moonlight, but he’s too exhausted.

  
Somehow, they make it to the hospital wing. Harry zones out for most of it, the only thing he registers is Dean holding his hand and Ron perched on the edge of one of the vacant beds like a bird. Whenever Madame Pomfrey seems to be speaking to him, Professor Dumbledore answers for him.

  
Within moments, he’s lying on the bed, having consumed three different potions that are most likely dream banishers, muscle relaxants, and pain relievers. His arm is bandaged, and he’s been washed with a quick cleaning spell before slipping into a nightgown, his privacy preserved by curtains wrapped around his bed.

  
He lies down lethargically, and Madame Pomfrey forces one more potion down his throat. He can feel himself fall asleep within moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really have so many fic ideas, but i probably should finish my existing ones first:/// sigh


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you belive this is actually done. what the fuck. i cant believe it took me the better part of a year to write a short story, but here we are friends! 
> 
> im probably gonna take a break from this work depending on what summer holds. writing this was so much fun, but i lost all motivation about 3/4 of the way through and i felt like i was doing a homework assignment every time i wrote a chapter. well see what happens!! 
> 
> if i decide to keep this work as a single story and not as a part of a series, ill let you know
> 
> if all goes well, ill start the second part in a few months/weeks depending! i love you all, thanks for putting up with me(;

Harry’s sleep is blissfully dreamless.

  
When he wakes up, it takes a few minutes. He feels inexplicably warm, and there’s sun shining on his face. Judging by the ripeness of the sunlight, it’s most likely late morning or early afternoon. The hospital wing is vacant except for him and one other person. Dean’s positioned right next to his bed, holding his left hand in both of his and observing him with an anxious expression.

  
“Hey,” Dean smiles wearily, playing with their fingers. His boyfriend looks like he’s been through a war. There’s shadows underneath his eyes, and his hair is matted and rumpled from his hands running through it repeatedly. Even with all of these flaws, he still looks beautiful.

  
“Hi,” Harry says sleepily, and then teases, “ _Gorgeous_.” Because seeing Dean sad and scared is the worst thing in the world and seeing him bashful is one of the best. Almost like magic, Dean abandons their handholding to feverishly cover his face, making a noise of protest.

  
“ _Noooo_ ,” He moans, high pitched and drawn out, like Harry just spoiled his favorite Muggle TV show, “God, I hate you.” But he’s smiling when he removes his hands from his marvelous facial bone structure, so Harry counts it as a hundred wins in his favor. There’s a wonderful moment where Dean sighs and lays his head on Harry’s stomach, and Harry pets his oily hair without even cringing. Just for a second, everything is perfect.

  
Unfortunately, the lull of voices outside in the hallway knock the content expression off of Dean’s face. His features get drawn and tense once more, and even when the people talking slowly move away from the entrance of the hospital wing Dean still looks concerned and upset. Harry hates it.

  
“I’m sorry,” Dean’s voice gets quiet, and he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes at all, “I’m so _sorry_ Harry, I don’t know why this happened to you and I don’t know why I didn’t tell someone what was happening. I should’ve known something was wrong.”

  
The Blame Game is draining to play, even more so when you’re just beating yourself up. Harry knows that if he doesn’t set the record straight right now, Dean will just about kill himself with guilt. He shakes his head and tugs on Dean’s curls a bit to get his attention, “Hey, babe, look at me.”

  
Dean makes a pitiful noise, but he complies. Harry isn’t used to being in this position, of having to be the one to help Dean and take care of him, but he can feel a warm pit in his stomach at this new purpose, “Love, nothing you could’ve done would’ve helped me in any way. Voldemort had a plan in place, and one fourth year wasn’t going to be able to stop it. What happened last night was entirely not your fault. It had nothing to do with you, and it wasn’t because of you, and you couldn’t have stopped it or changed anything. In case you didn’t notice, this kind of stuff happens to me. A lot.”

  
“But,” Oh fuck, _no_. Dean’s eyes look suspiciously shiny, and Harry absolutely hates this. He would rather have his arm sliced again than watch Dean cry, “You were _tortured_.”

  
He says this as if Harry hadn’t experienced it.

  
“Yeah,” He draws out the word for a fraction of a second, trying to decide what thought process to act on, “But it’s done now, and we’re both safe. Even better, Dumbledore knows that Voldemort’s back. I know things aren’t going to be okay for a while and I’m going to have a fuckton of problems, but I’m still here at least.”

  
He doesn’t mention how he was almost sure he would never see Dean in the flesh again. How when he was being tortured, all he could think of (when he wasn’t thinking of how much pain he was in) was that he was glad that Dean wasn’t there to watch. And of course, he doesn’t say that when faced with the tip of Voldemort’s deadly wand, he had mourned the inevitable end of their relationship much more than the end of his own life. Thinking about that scares him, that he values Dean much more than anything else. It’s crazy how codependent they’ve become in just a couple of months.

  
“I don’t want to think about you ever leaving,” Dean sniffles, rubbing his thumb lightly against the white bandage of his arm, “I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t think I stopped crying at all yesterday. It was a bit pathetic of me.”

  
“I’d have probably done the same thing, to be quite honest,” Harry admits shamelessly, anything to keep his mind off of the what-ifs, “I’m like a puppet with my strings cut without you around. Someone would probably mistake me for a piece of rubbish at some point.”

  
“Very pretty rubbish,” He hears Dean mumble into the blankets.

  
“So, what’s happened since I’ve been out?” Harry asks gently. He doesn’t want to jump back on this subject, especially not while Dean’s so vulnerable and tearful, but he has to know what’s been happening while he was unconscious.

  
“Dumbledore and Fudge had a bit of a row,” Dean informs him, “Fudge tried to deny that You-Know-Who was back at all and Dumbledore told him that there was far too much evidence to just avoid the whole thing. He told Fudge that if he didn’t take charge of the situation and alert the public, Dumbledore would make his ‘voluntary ignorance’ widely known. Fudge cottoned on after that, and they’ve gone to the Ministry since then.”

  
It would make sense. Fudge’s always felt insecure in his position of power, always craved the public’s approval and always wanted the structure underneath his throne secure. Dumbledore’s probably the only person in the magical world who has the influence to get him to resign, so Fudge is undoubtedly wary of him. Still, Harry definitely wouldn’t put it past Fudge to try and pretend that everything was still alright. He’s always been a stick-your-head-in-the-sand sort of person, actively avoiding problems in the futile hopes that they’ll eventually go away.

  
Harry’s glad that the Minister of Magic and the Headmaster were the people to find him lying on the ground first. Everything worked out exactly as it was supposed to, and Voldemort’s plan to surprise the public with his comeback loses a lot of momentum if the two most influential people in the magical world already know about it.

  
They lie in silence for a little bit longer, until Dean finally falls asleep. Harry has a feeling that he hadn’t slept at all last night while he himself was out like a light. He stays as still as possible, closing his eyes and reclining on the pillows while his boyfriend naps. He also determinedly does not think about last night’s traumatic events, knowing full well that he’ll have a panic attack or worse if his mind goes back to those memories. That can be done another day, when him and Dean are much more emotionally stable. He knows that he’ll have nightmares for months, knows that he probably won’t get a decent nights’ sleep for just as long.

  
Thank god he’ll be separated from Dean for the summer. That’s a horrible thing to think and he would never say it out loud, but he’s glad that they’ll be apart while he attempts to get his shit together. It’s going to be absolute hell, dealing with insomnia and nightmares and trauma all while dealing with his shitty aunt and uncle. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to see him in that state.

  
The next morning, he gets dismissed from the hospital wing. Apparently, the entire school has been told the true details of what happened, and Fudge had openly discouraged it before admitting that it was true in the Daily Prophet. He’s currently under a world of criticism and Dumbledore’s been teaching all the paintings in the school about tightening security and looking for intruders. They’re talking of adding even more protection to the castle this summer, if that’s still even possible. Oh well. If it makes people sleep better at night, then Harry’s all for this plan.

  
It’s their last day of the year, and Dean’s of course still not quite all right but he’s getting there. Harry feels numb as they walk through the school grounds, like nothing’s really hit him yet, and he hopes that it finally happens when he’s tucked away in his bedroom and not on the Hogwarts Express or anything. He can’t afford to have a mental breakdown here, when he’s spent so much time convincing Dean and Hermione and Ron that he’s fine.

  
“I don’t want to leave you, even for a minute,” Dean sulks as they walk towards the Hogwarts Express, luggage in tow. He looks like he wants to run back into the castle any moment. Half of Harry is completely on board with this idea. Summer with the Dursleys sounds like hell, especially after he’s been through so much shit these past few months. It feels like it’s been the longest year of his entire goddamn life, honestly, and most of it feels like it was just a dream. Like Draco’s still here, hating his guts and prowling with his Slytherin gang, and Hermione and Ron and him are the Three Musketeers, up for anything. It’s amazing how much can change in the course of a few months. He can’t even believe it.

  
“You have to write me every day,” Dean now tells him quietly, like it’s a secret just meant for the two of them. Harry nods, and lets his boyfriend kiss the top of his head. They head towards the scarlet train waiting on the tracks.

  
Whatever happens this summer, at least he’ll have Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my other works. im in the one direction fandom, and im working on two new stories for the percy jackson fandom and the teen wolf fandom. i have a lot of ideas! 
> 
> a shitty ending for this story, im so sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you like it! A comment or kudos would encourage me to keep writing, and let me know if I've made any errors.


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